Dear Crime
by Paintastics
Summary: A story in which Watson's London is flipped upside-down and turned inside-out; where his best friend is now the biggest criminal mastermind London has ever known, and Watson himself has walked right in the middle of it all.
1. Chapter 1

**This is loosely based off the short story "The Adventure of the Other Detective" by Bradley H. Sinor (found in a collection of SH short stories) in which Watson steps into an alternate London where Holmes is the new Moriarty and Moriarty is the new Holmes. But I can assure you, this in only**_**based**_**off that idea. I... let's just say, the story premise was awesome (minus the Moriarty part) but the execution was disagreeable to me. Anyway, here's my shot in the dark.**

* * *

I had been at the club all night, again, in attempts to forget what was currently happening at 221B Baker Street. I hold no doubt that Holmes was now sitting in an induced state, draped over the settee, maybe over the chair or perhaps not even that far. Perhaps he didn't even care enough as to weather he was collapsed on the floor or the furniture. Either way, the man in those rooms was not the man I liked to call my companion. No, this was a man of rash behavior set off by the terrible failing of a case which resulted in death, escape, thievery, and the tempers fragile enough to drive flatmates apart. I left with some steam in my step, my companion stubbornly turned the other way, violin screeching in undaunted torture, and a few crass words driven into my back as I slammed the door shut. Three hours ago has since passed, and I'd been drowning my frustrations with cheap beer and utilizing every shilling of my month's share of rent on it. That would teach Holmes.

I blushed at my unadulterated shame in placing all the blame on my friend. Besides, I knew that what he was doing that moment was an entirely darker mode of sulking, one which I scarcely tried to think about. I sighed, tipping back the last frothy sip of beer and wiping my mouth over my sleeves. It was time to go home, I decided, and to make amends with the friend who was as equally dismal as myself.

I stumbled out of the establishment onto the nearly deserted streets. The wind was beating angrily at my shivering form as I made my way back home, disoriented beyond comprehension. My head hurt, my vision was terribly blurred and my steps as feeble as a baby lamb's. I had hardly made it round one block before feeling the sour taste of vomit rising up my throat. _Oh no_, I thought, _not here... just got to make it back..._Small apparitions formed in the center of my vision as tiny green and black dots swarmed before my eyes. The terrible feeling of the stomach contracting and the bitter taste at the back of my tongue told me that I would not get my wish. I tripped over a crate which jumped out at me from the shadows and fell to my knees, loosing all the alcohol I'd just spent my entire month's budget on. Coughing, I felt my eyes tearing at the acidic liquid I just fell face-first into. Oh God, I felt to ill and beaten, wanting nothing more than to be knocked out where I lay; knowing already that I had no hopes of making it to Baker Street. All I could do was hope a constable would find me before morning and spare me the humiliation, or perhaps Holmes would sense something amiss and come search for me. If he had forgiven me, anyway. My last thoughts were of the unbearable lightheadedness I felt as my vision begin to white out. And then the world was gone.

My mind was conscious before my eyes could open, and for what seemed like hours I felt nothing but the chill which made my clothes cling to my body and the acrid scents of last nights blunders burning my nostrils. Scant cries of anguish and contempt rattled in my ears as the recollection of our silly quibble ran through my tired mind. And then I remembered the stupor I fell into; all drinking and self-loathing only adding to the amounting guilt. There were pains in my spine that were new to me, and a hazy film of milky light that clouded my vision. Dear God, what had I done to myself? Or worse yet... what had happened to me while I was unconscious?

I was finally able to force my eyes open and prop myself up. It took a few moments for my vision to clear, and I found that I remained in the same ally in which I had initially fallen. A few people walked by, not giving my haggard form any mind as they went about their business. I grunted as I got my feet beneath me and used the wall as support. I've been drunk before, but never like this. As it was, my footing stabilized in no time at all, and indeed, my entire situation seemed to better itself when the lightheadedness dissipated. Pulling out my pocket watch, I was horrified to see that it was well past nine o'clock in the morning. Six hours I laid in that alley!

Straightening out my clothing as best I could, I topped my hat and quickly exited to hail a cab. Well I was about to, when I remembered that I had spent all my money the night before. I really hadn't thought things through. Ah, well, Baker Street was only a twenty minute walk which I knew would do me some good.

And so I made my way back home, fully prepared to apologize to a friend who was just as eagerly awaiting my return; both of us completely sincere in our words yet neither deserving to hear them.

The door to 221b was never more inviting and so terrifying than it was that morning. I stood for sometime anticipating the defeat before summing up my courage and unlocking the door. My feet were heavy upon the stairs, but I tried to keep them as quiet as I could. Mrs. Hudson rushed past, hardly acknowledging my dismal appearance. She was used to one or the other of us treading home in that sorry state. I opened the unsecured door and quietly stepped in, only to stop cold in my tracks.

The room was... it was spotless! No papers stacked on furniture, the desk actually possessing a flat surface, no odd jars and findings scattered round the room, and, most strange of all, no bullet pocks! Since the day I moved in here, I don't think I've ever seen the furniture as they were meant to be seen! I stared in astonishment at this peculiar sight. Had Holmes had the compulsion to clean the rooms? Well that was unlikely; his habits worked in quite the opposite direction. Perhaps he burned everything out of indignation? Certainly not; the fireplace was way too clean for that possibility. I continued to stare in awe at this strange sight, when I heard the pitter patter of tiny feet running down the stairs of my room.

"Father! Are you home already? I just watched you walk down the street five minutes ago!" A small boy appeared then, jovial in his movements and bursting with energy. I also couldn't help but notice that he was running down from _my_ _bedroom_. Once he was on the flat, he looked up to see me and stopped dead in his tracks.

I looked at him in confusion, about to ask if his father was a client of Sherlock Holmes or what, when his face flushed and hurriedly turned back up the stairs. I nearly called back to him when a lady stepped in from what was Holmes's room, towel in hand, and forcing a smile.

"Oh, are you here to see Harold? I'm afraid you just missed him." She said.

Again, I could do nothing but stare at the strange woman who had emerged from my friend's room. "Uh, no, I'm... excuse me, but who are you?"

She chuckled and wrung the towel. "I could ask you the same thing, sir. My name's Sophie Ashton, and my husband's a clerk. Do you have business with him?"

"Do you live here?" I asked, ignoring the question.

"I... well yes, my husband and I have lived here for three years. Now, would you please tell me what it is I can do for you? If nothing, then you'll have to excuse me as I've quite a few errands to run before my husband gets back."

I wanted to question her, to find out what the deuce was going on and why she claimed to have lived here for three years, but the tone in her voice warned me against it. I nervously smiled and bowed, stepping out the door. "I'm sorry to have wasted your time, ma'am, I... I must have the wrong address," She nodded, and I quickly made my escape.

The sun was blearing in my eyes and the aroused dirt was much to cloudy for such an early hour. The streets looked the same, the people looked the same and the little store at the corner was exactly the same. Mrs. Hudson was the landlady at 221b Baker Street, and yet... it didn't appear is though _I_ were its inhabitant. Was it possible that my mind was still disillusioned by drink? Perhaps the beer had been tainted, or... heavens, I had not a clue. Whatever was going on, it was evident that I didn't live at Baker Street and so it was unlikely that Holmes could be found there either. Not having the spottiest idea of where to start looking, I headed for Pall Mall.

My journey was to be in vein, as life would have it. When entering the _queerest place in London_, I had inquired for a Mr. Mycroft Holmes. The receptionist looked at me with a blank expression, insisting that no man by that name had ever entered through their doors. I decided that that also wasn't right, but given my morning so far, I nodded and turned out. My next stop? I'd say the hospital, to check if I indeed had a job or... by Jove, what _was_ the state of my professional affairs? Swallowing the lump which had formed in my throat, I made my way to the familiar grounds of the hospital, not wholly confident in what I'd find.

The staff was entirely unrecognizable, much to my dismay. There sat a gentleman at the front desk whose great girth was about to bust the buttons on his greatcoat and his lumpy head as scarce of hair as that of a babe's. His stroked an astonishing walrus mustache as he twittled a pencil between his fat fingers, eyes scanning over unidentifiable papers.

"Excuse me," said I, walking up to him. "Might you tell me if a Dr. John Watson works here?"

It looked like he was ignoring me, but eventually he let out a gruff laugh. "John Watson? Well, sir, there's many a John Watson in London. But you say this one is a doctor? On staff here?"

"If he be the correct man I am searching for, then yes."

He regarded me with curiosity in his eyes before promptly swiping a hand over his naked head. "Sorry sir, but no such doctor exist. Least not here, anyhow."

My heart dropped into my stomach. "I see," I replied drily. "Thank you, sir, I must have my directory wrong." He smiled, waving me away. I dare say, I more stumbled away from the desk than walked from it. I sat on one of the benches to wait out the sudden bout of dizziness, when a small, lean fellow walked up to me.

"I couldn't help but overhearing you when you talked to old Thomas there," he remarked. "But I nearly tripped over myself when I heard the subject of your inquiries."

I nodded, brushing off the words. "It's fine, really, nothing-" By Jove, was that Lestrade? Was I really looking at whom I _thought_ it was? My features must have been magnificent, for he looked at me in slight concern.

"Is something the matter?" I stared at the familiar face, but it wasn't he... couldn't be! This was obviously a nurse of the hospital, not the terrier of a man which was Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard! But I composed myself, smiling as best I could.

"I'm sorry, my good fellow, but... what did you overhear?"

"Not all of it, but I did hear you mention John Watson."

"Oh! Do you know him?" I asked.

"Honestly? I wish I could have gotten to know him better! The poor devil died a war hero, if I do say so myself." A chill shot down my spine. I was _dead_ in this world. It was in that moment that it dawned on me that maybe I wasn't John H. Watson at all; perhaps I was someone totally different, new name, new occupation, new friends- or no friends, perhaps even a new career and skills! Well... as for that, I still withheld the knowledge I've always had, but maybe that knowledge has been replaced? Good heavens, I didn't even know if I looked the same! My clothes certainly were mine, as in, Dr. Watson of Baker Street, friend and colleague of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I was positive that I was whom I believed I was. But... still, my clothes weren't phenomenal, and I hadn't seen my face since awakening during these odd happenings. My fingers instantly touched my upper lip. My mustache was still there, at least.

The man who was known to me as Lestrade looked at my gesture with amusement. "Something wrong with your face?" He asked.

"What is your name?"

"My name? It's-"

"Never mind that," I rushed, not wanting to confirm anything. "Tell me, my good sir, what color are my eyes?"

"Uhm... I'd say they were-"

"Forget it." I cut him off again, standing up and heading for the exit.

I was scared. I didn't know what was wrong with me! Was I or was I not Doctor John H. Watson? Where did I live? What did I do? Did my reputation bless or condemn me? Who was I, and where did I fit in this world if the John Watson to everyone else died back in Afghanistan? And if my role were changed, along with Lestrade's and the absence of Mycroft Holmes, then where might Sherlock be; in all meanings of the word? I felt my mind rushing from the surge of unanswerable and undesirable questions. I was a man lost in my own world, or perhaps this was all just a cruel trick of the alcohol in my system. But I'm a doctor, confound it! And also an experience drinker, and I could assure myself most heartedly, that this was not a normal side effect of too much drink; I don't care what passes one's lips, _this_ was not the result. God forbid my drink had been laced with something, but what on earth would be the purpose of that?

Through what compulsions, I do not know, but I found it incredibly difficult not to simply run out in the middle of the street and pull at my hair. I fancy myself a collected fellow, and yet I had convinced myself that it would help extract the information I yearned to understand. But, I know, that I am above that; capable of keeping my countenance and holding it in place until I was at least alone. The only problem with that was that I had no where to go and no money in my pockets to redress that issue. I decided that the sensible thing to do would be to go somewhere that could care for a man who may possibly be mad. I picked up the remains of my dignity and headed for Scotland Yard.

* * *

Well surely, the young man at the desk was none other than Stanley Hopkins. I recognized his features instantly, though he did look a bit older. That lead me to wonder upon the date, but then the idea that perhaps his position here was more cumbersome than what it was in my London, and thus he was prematurely aging. I walked up to the desk, not able to do anything else.

"Can I help you?" He asked in a familiar voice.

"Why yes, I seem to have found my self in... a predicament, and I am in need of some information."

He nodded, signaling me to take a seat. "What can I help you with, sir?"

Here is where I hesitated. What _could_ he help me with? "I know this may sound a bit... strange, but... do you know who I am?"

"You've striking features, but I can't say your face is familiar to me. You're not a criminal, I hope?"

"Oh, no!" I cried. "Nothing of the sorts! It's just that I woke up this morning, and... well, things aren't as they should be."

"Well, that's unfortunate," said he, slack jawed and and not wholly committed to helping me. "What should I call you?" I'd like to know the answer to that myself. As though he had read my mind, the bored demeanor quickly transformed into one of peeked interest. "You don't know? Hum! Well, I am a detective, so maybe I can help you with that!"

I had closed my eyes, thanking the heavens for this small bit of relief. "If you'd please."

"Alright, where do you work?"

"I don't know."

"Alright then. Family?"

"None, I don't think."

"I see. How about friends? Associates?"

I smiled. "Well, I know one thing for sure, and that is that I consider myself an intimate companion of Sherlock Holmes."

His knuckles clenched suddenly, eyes sharpening and regarding me with a cold stare. "Really now?"

"Yes."

"And how long have you known mister Sherlock Holmes?"

"I'd say about six years now, though we connected almost immediately."

"Funny," he smiled. "I've also known mister_Sherlock Holmes_ for about six years. Maybe even seven?" He was standing behind the desk now, towering over me. "So, a man of no identity, no family and no occupation waltzes into my office and claims to be on intimate terms with one of London's biggest criminal masterminds. Hah! I hardly know what to do first!"

"Criminal mastermind!" I shouted. That was impossible! If there was one thing I knew about my friend Sherlock Holmes, it was that- oh, holy mother of God and all damnation. "Look here, Hopkins!" I held up my hands. "I am _not_ a criminal-"

"I never introduced myself, how did you know my name?"

"Well... it's not difficult to place your face. You've worked at the Yard for four years now, and how you claim to know Holmes for seven-"

"Four years! Why, that's exactly how long I've been here! Holmes has been an interest of mine before I joined, however, I'd love to hear you explain how you knew that. Unless, of course, you're working right along side with him!"

"Be reasonable!" I shouted. "If I were a criminal, why the deuce would I walk directly into your office to turn myself in? It makes no sense!"

"Of course it doesn't! Not unless this was a trap. Is it? Am I to be expecting your master to pay a visit?"

"I can assure you,"

"Sir, you are under arrest for affiliations with a wanted criminal and I will escort you personally to your new haven."

"With what evidence!"

"You confessed!"

"I did no such-" I blacked-out the moment his fist connected with my skull.


	2. Chapter 2

**(Everything here is based solely on what I've picked up on reading the books and on what makes sense to me, and so I may be terribly inaccurate when it comes to Scotland Yard regulations. Just thought I'd give you a heads up.) D:**

I had been lying on the stiff cot, contemplating my situation, when an uproar of cries from my neighboring cells alerted me to the presence of some of the officials. I didn't pay too much attention, as it was my assumption that they were here for someone else or for another purpose, so it had me completely by surprise to find them standing at my door.

"Hey, mister _criminal_, I got someone to talk to you."

"I have no one to talk to."

"Oh really? Wasn't it you who asked for a Mr. Lestrade?"

Lestrade! I shot up in my bed and swung my feet to the ground. Leaning forward, I peered through the bars and saw the little ferret-faced man standing behind the guard.

"My dear sir," I wonder if I had murmured things in my sleep as well? "I didn't ask-"

"We give you one correspondence and you asked for _him_. Say what you like, I'll be watching you."

He pushed Lestrade toward my cell and turned his back to us. I was up in an instant and at the door.

Lestrade, as that was indeed his name, looked over me with scrutinizing eyes, his face unreadable aside from the obvious distrust. "You didn't say you were a criminal."

"I'm not a criminal and I can swear upon it!"

He regarded me with a conflicted expression before slowly grasping the bars. "Then who are you? Why have you brought me into all this?"

I looked at my one and only companion in despair. "You must believe me, Lestrade, or else I will go completely mad."

"You talk as if you know me," said he. "And yet I've never seen you before in my life. I must ask again, sir, who are you?"

I watch him intently through the bars trying to read his face. His persistence was still present, he knows what questions to ask and didn't back down when I denied him an answer. A glimmer of hope lighted my heart as I wondered if a small bit of the stalwart investigator I had come to know was still within him. I grabbed the bars, my hand only a few inches above his, and ventured to provoke him. "Tell me, my dear fellow, why you're not the one in that uniform." His face paled as I nodded towards the officer behind us. He slowly turned round, watching the man pestering another criminal. His brows furrow as his eyes became dreamy, if only for a few moments.

"I..."

"That should be you, Lestrade. You could have been the one leading these men better and stronger than they are now, so why aren't you?

His gaze returned to me, severity marking his every feature. "How could you know?"

How, indeed? I deemed it impossible to tell him what I knew; I can't even imagine the consequences, if any, that that would cause. I also had not a clue how to answer the simple question of who I was or what I was doing here. I couldn't be doctor Watson and it'd be unfeasible to borrow my friends identity as he was apparently the biggest name in crime to this world. I had to find my place; look at my surroundings, decipher the possibilities and find out everything and anything of familiarity to my own world, no matter how trivial. So what had I to work with? It seemed apparent that the people in this London were, at one point, the same people of my London. Mrs. Hudson still worked at Baker Street, Hopkins a Scotland Yard Detective, Lestrade had _intentions_ of law enforcement but didn't follow through... and of course, there was Holmes. However, because Holmes wasn't a young chemist eagerly solving the mysteries of hemoglobin and thus looking for cheap rooms, therefore meeting myself, moving into 221b and establishing himself as the world's one and only Consulting Detective, he must have deviated from his path at some point. But when did this happen? How? Dear me, I didn't even know the severity of his crimes... and yet, it was then common conception that I was not only acquaintances with Sherlock Holmes, the Holmes of _criminal_ intent, but that I was working closely with him! I suppose there was not much I could do to remedy my situation, as that was the hand I was dealt. Well, I decided, at least I had a basic knowledge of everyone in London to play up my character.

"Do you know why I'm here?" I ventured.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "They just told me you wanted to see me, and I'm fairly certain that I'm going to be a witness or else a suspect now."

I laughed, playing up my persona, and easing into a smile. "I've been foolish, I let myself slip. Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?"

Anger flit across his features as he gripped the bars tighter. "That man's a criminal! He's more than that, though; he's great; elusive; suave; everything about him is eccentric. But you know what I think? I think that it won't last." he said with a chuckle. "You ask me, it's all a show. It won't be long before his entire establishment is brought down, what with so much power at his fingertips, I wouldn't doubt that the whole thing would go without his even being aware of it!"

I widen my smile if only to hide the grimace which threatened my lips. "If I know my good friend well, then I can assure you that everything is how it should be."

I heard the breath hitch in his throat. "Friend! You work with him, don't you!"

"Always the clever one, you are." The remark which usually filled me with humor instead burned within my stomach. If ever I got back, I swore I'd never disrespect Lestrade again.

"Then that's how you knew I failed to become a policeman! What else do you know?"

I looked round the room in Holmes' trademark nonchalant manner, searching for excuses. "Only that your rival Tobias Gregson got the position and that you didn't." My conjecture was flimsy in that I had no idea of the other inspector's role in life here, but I figured I'd come out none the worse if I were wrong.

The small man looked at me in amazement; I sighed in relief. "He did! That Gregson... he's a bumbling buffoon, hardly fit for Chief Inspector! Man, I tell you, just by following his cases in the paper, I know he's hung at least three innocent men and let about five guilty ones walk free. You tell your Mr. Holmes that if he's to take down anyone at the Yard, it'd best be Tobias Gregson!" He instantly clasped a hand to his mouth after the words left his lips, staring at me wide-eyed. I laughed, realizing he'd said more than he intended. "I was only kidding, mind you! If that man winds up dead in the papers next morning... oh! I'd have his murder on my hands!"

"Nothing of the sorts, Lestrade, unless he happens to tread dangerous waters by himself."

"Yes, of course... any how, what'd you call me here for? When last I saw you, I just assumed you an old friend of a dead soldier, and now... well I hardly need to elaborate!"

I didn't know what to tell him. Perhaps it was imprudent of me to play up the assumptions, which Hopkins really had no evidence to support, and so threw away any and all chances I had of pulling Lestrade into my confidences. If anything, I may have just reserved my place at the gallows. Oh, what a mess I've created! Like it matters, anyhow. I've no idea how I got here nor how to return. Already I've made myself up to be a notorious criminal affiliate and so it's incredibly apparent that I'll be justifiably dead come next week. I hope to all the heavens that this is nothing more than a horrible dream and that I'll wake up before my neck snaps with the rope.

I smiled, not wanting to cause my poor fellow any more distress. "Nothing more than to acknowledge your efforts, dear Lestrade. I know you're more than capable of overshooting Gregson, and why you didn't, I suppose I'll never know. But he is an incompetent idiot, and I think it best if you try again." I said the last word with implemented suggestion.

For a brief moment, his eyes sparkled in delight as he very nearly smiled at me. If it weren't for the returning guard, I may have been able to convince Lestrade a bit more.

"Mr. Lestrade, sir, I'm going to need you to come with me to fill out some paper work. Also, ahh, you will be required to attend the court hearing for this man within the next three days."

"A court hearing? What do you need me for?"

I didn't hear what further troubles I had caused the little man. By that point, the officer had led my friend away with neither of them turning to give me a last glance. I sulked back to my cot, realizing I hadn't improved my situation in the least, and sighed. Within a single day I had gone from honorable citizen to the lowliest criminal. In the next few days, I'd be standing in court with not a word in my defense, and then I'd be hung. Or maybe they'd interrogate me for information I didn't have yet lead on that I did. But what could I do? Lestrade can be an unimaginative fellow, but he's sharp enough not to hold back information and so he will easily lead the jury against me. True, I could have pleaded the truth because I believe him capable of believing it, but I didn't. I could now say nothing, do nothing, and think of nothing other than my impending judgment.

I don't know how it was possible, but I eventually fell into a deep, restless sleep.

The next few days leading up to my summons were filled with restless pacing and a constant blanket of fear over my mind. I hadn't eaten the entire duration and I'm afraid my form was becoming haggard and distressed, much like how it was upon my returning from Afghanistan. And so, I had run myself to exhaustion by the time Stanley Hopkins was standing, gleefully, before my cell door.

"So, decided on a name yet, Mr. Criminal? Or shall I just have that inscribed on your stone?"

"It's a perfectly French name, if I do say so myself. I'd be glad to have it forever on my grave." I reply, slowly standing to meet him.

"French? I always thought it was an Irish name, no? Very well, I've had worse suggestions. Anyhow, do you know what day it is?"

"The day you learn to be a proper policeman and dig deeper than the bare surface?"

He smiled. "No, I'm afraid that day hasn't come yet. Today, actually, is the day we let you sing and dance before the judge while he counts away the minutes until he can sentence you to... well, whatever he decides necessary!"

"You mean you're not going to ask me about the whereabouts of my friend?"

"Oh, we'll have plenty of time for that, don't worry."

"Well, I'm glad for that. I'll have to make sure to give you the completely wrong information."

"I can never tell comedians from criminals, did you know?"

"We're all the same, really. And you can say or do what you want, I won't speak. Nothing I can say will grant me the sunrise tomorrow."

Again he smiles, unlocking my door and fastening the iron cuffs round my wrist. "You're very poetic. Too bad you'll never become a writer."

I laughed at the irony and followed him out, leaving behind me the dark cell and all the criminals I never thought I'd call my neighbors.

I was lead into a cab which held two additional constables as well as Lestrade. I was sat facing the latter but squeezed between an official and Hopkins. Apparently, he was taking credit for my capture and so thought it fit to see me though to the end. Another oath I made, if I should return, would be to examine young Hopkins closer to make sure he wasn't turning out to be another Tobias Gregson.

The whip cracked while the driver clicked his tongue to encourage his dumb beast forward. I sat in silent repose, surprised at my lack of visible dismay, and watched quietly as we jostled in our seats with the whole world whirling past our windows. There was never joy in these drives, even when I was just playing part of the supervising medical or else as escort to Holmes. Even the other men in the cab, besides maybe Hopkins, weren't reveling in this bittersweet moment.

Perhaps I shed a darker light on the young detective than what was true. He wasn't beaming, to say the least. His smile was ever present when our eyes met, and yet when I caught him off guard, his eyes were no more jovial than mine. I was certain that leading any man to his inevitable death wasn't joyful, but the ultimate fact that every little blow against the infamous Sherlock Holmes was enough to be proud of. At least enough to put on the performance Stanley Hopkins was.

What an end, I thought. My life was meaningless until it took the turn to grand adventures of fighting the prows of crime along side the indefatigable defender of justice, and now I find myself in a cab, headed towards a court which will no doubt deem me guilty all because my best friend; the most significant relationship I ever held, was now the epitome of evil. Perhaps that is why I no longer felt the restlessness I had yesterday? Because all right was wrong and I could do nothing but deepen the wound? But I _know_ I'm innocent; I've done no crimes and... oh, for God's sake! I didn't even _know_ Sherlock Holmes! That realization alone seemed only to confirm my damnable state. He would no longer be there to help me out of unseemly situations, not to outwit the police with logic that never crossed their minds, not even for me to return to to unload all my frustrations. Holmes was the only one I could vent my rage onto, only to have him laugh at my anger and help me realize how trivial it was. That, however, was gone now.

Through all my depravity, and the weight of my situation with the utter hopelessness I now felt, it was not a wonder that my vision began to blur. Not so profusely as to attract attention from the distracted officials, but enough for the would-be detective to observe. Lestrade flicked my knee and I looked up at him. He leaned forward and I, mirroring his movement, followed.

With just one subtle whisper, he singlehandedly took the entire weight of the world off my shoulders.

"You're a bloody liar."

I laughed incredulously. "And you, sir, are a better policeman than this lot." Indeed, one of the officers was asleep and the other miles away in his own mind.

Lestrade grinned while picking his nail distractedly. "I tell myself that everyday. Well now that we've thoroughly established that I'd be the best pick of a bad lot, how about we talk about you and why you're in this cab?"

"Perhaps, if I had more time, I could tell you."

He nodded with an air of indifference. "You're a terrible liar, too, I might add. I think I was more convinced when I first saw you than after our entire discussion. And I simply must ask, sir, where are you from? Seeing that you're most certainly not local."

I stared at him in astonishment. "Not local! What the deuce makes you say that?"

He chuckled, rolling his shoulder back and grinning. "Because, everyone who can read a paper or listen to word knows that Sherlock Holmes has no friends. True, he employs people, but he has no close-knit cronies. His works are the efforts only of himself."

"Well that's no surprise." I mutter, sitting back in my seat.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. I think, Lestrade, that I'd like the rest of the ride to myself. Heaven knows it'll be my last, and I'd like to enjoy it."

My request was granted and I soon found myself back in the state of disarray. I was happy enough to know that at least someone in this world knew me innocent. Perhaps that alone would be enough to give me salvation? I mean really, I've only encountered a handful of people so far, the one most conversed with sitting across from me, and the others... well, they sure had nothing against me. Besides! Hopkins was the only one in the room when I had my 'confession' so with what basis did he have? With all this running through my mind, I sat a bit easier in my seat. Perhaps I wasn't going to die after all. Maybe I've been given a chance to find my way home after this ugly mess disappears, or else I could at least start anew here- no, that was impossible. I held too much to _my_ world that it'd be simply impossible to accept a life here. Ah, well, whatever fate throws at me; may I be proved innocent and awaken back home, I could not ask for more.

As I looked out the window, I noticed that were coming round the bend by a shipyard. Indeed, this was a part of London which one doesn't usually travel with a destination such as ours. I brought this fact to Hopkins, all narcissistic jabs at my expense forgotten, as he too looked out the window.

"Oy, you're right! Morris!" He now leant out the window to inquire about the problem with the officer driving the cart. I heard him swear and oath and quickly slide out the window. Caught completely off guard by this action, I, along with the other men in my company, moved to the left of our cab and looked out to see what had become of our inspector.

To my amazement, the driver was gone!

"Hopkins! Sir?" one of the constables called out.

"I'm afraid dear Hopkins is busy at the moment, though I would be more than happy to escort you fine gentlemen myself."

The blood in my veins ceased to flow at the sound of that voice.


	3. Chapter 3

There was lots of movement from my side as the policemen and Lestrade attempted to fall into action, but I could not hear what they were shouting. Dare I turn around? Only to confirm the worse; to see the face which spoke in that unmistakable manner? Now that I thought about it, I did feel the weight of someone sitting next to me where that seat had been previously unoccupied. I swallowed the lump in my throat, and slowly turned to the man seated beside me.

It was Sherlock Holmes. He was dressed in an official's uniform, as it was likely that he was our driver the entire time from prison to our present location. He must've slipped in when we were all distracted by the window. As I dwelled in my delirious state of awe, my _best_ _friend_ removed his gaze from the policemen for a brief moment and shot me a sly smile.

"No? Well I'm afraid that if you won't have me as your driver, then I simply must take my leave. However, before I go, I do believe I've a friend on bored?" Those eyes were his undoubtedly, and they sparkled just as bright as ever.

"You're not takin' 'im and you aren't goin' either!" A constable shouted, positioning himself between me and our guest, giving me away.

"Oh, come now! Don't be like that," Holmes laughed- oh, it was his same laugh!

"Where's Inspector Hopkins!" Lestrade demanded.

"Smelling the dirt, I imagine, like all of London's Finest."

"You- you threw him over?" I asked, my voice strained.

The man looked at me, his eyes searching my face and analyzing my person. There was an odd flash of some emotion in his features, probably the effect of his trying to recognize me. Of course by now, and most likely from the very beginning, he had already deduced my dubious lie.

"He fell, it was unfortunate, but I think I'll be alright. Anyhow," he then stood, the jostling of the cab hardly affecting his footing as he readjusted his shirt cuff. "This cab's due to collide soon and I'd like to be gone when it does. So I think my companion and I shall be on our way."

He held out a hand to me but all I could do was stare at it. The constable which held me slapped away the proffered hand. "I already told you-"

"Yes, and I've already told you, too," In an instant, Holmes had brandished a pistol and shot the policeman in the chest! We all ducked at the loud explosion, but not before the man swiftly turned toward me and threw a bag over my head; I offered no struggle. There were more muffled cries round me, and I wondered if he had intended to bring us all with him.

Another gunshot fired and I felt something splash against my side. I closed my eyes, reclining into myself and willing it all away. It may be hard to comprehend, as I find it extremely difficult to find the proper words to describe how I felt in that moment, but I must stress the blow I felt when hearing these answers in _his_ voice or hearing the gun going off when I knew _whose_ hand had pulled the trigger. It was as if I'd been struck by a hot iron only to fall and be pierced by a steel pike. My entire world was ripped to shreds and burned in the fire, the finally settled ashes once again disturbed by this man.

I hadn't noticed the silence which draped around me like a heavy fog, the utter loneliness and feeling of suspended air was suffocating. Though I couldn't see, the dirt beneath the wheels and the creak of the trap told my worried mind that I was still on board, and yet, I was completely alone. Where was Lestrade? Had he died because I dragged him into this nasty mess? I wasn't to know. Slumped against the wall, on the floor, careful not to bump the dead body which was surely but a few feet from myself, I began to cry.

I hated that man. I hated the very soul of the person wearing my friend's face, laughing in the driver's seat as though he hadn't just done what he did. He was capable of so much and yet he's wasting his time picking off Scotland Yarders! And why was he doing this? Because I was stupid enough to milk this damnable lie and now I had the death of all these men on my mind.

Once I woke up in this world and realized my situation, it was my only hope to find Holmes, explain to him the gravity of trouble I was in, and plead his help in remedying this predicament. Never in my life would I have thought that he'd be the malicious murderer he is now. Honestly, I didn't know what he planned on doing with me. Murder was the most likely option, but if he were anything like the Holmes I knew, it wouldn't be a plain and simple death. No, it'd be dramatic and disgusting.

We rattled on in silence for a long while after, my eyes only capable of perceiving the darkness both from direct vision and the bleak truth of my situation. My hands were unbound, but I though it best to leave the blindfold where it was. Finally, I heard some movement from above before the door was thrown open then again locked.

I could hear the steady rhythm of his breath and the subtle rustle of his clothing as he positioned himself before me. "So," he began. "I was going about my business as usual, until a few days ago it was brought to my attention that a friend of mine had found himself in jail. It was the strangest thing, as I have no recollection of any associate claiming that title in my records. So if you'd please, tell me who you are and why you claim connections with me?"

I didn't answer him.

"What is it?" he demanded impatiently. "Did you get caught? Accused? I've never seen you before in my life, so surely you don't think lying about me would be your salvation."

When I again remained silent, he sighed and took a seat across from me. I assume he was assessing my potential threat before he leant forward and slid his fingers beneath the fringe of the bag, lifting it off my head. I caught a brief glimpse of his face before lowering my eyes in shame. I couldn't tell if the boiling sensation in my chest was found from anger or, very possibly, _joy_. Joy! Despite everything, my mind went on default and automatically found comfort just being near him again, seeing his slender fingers tapping against his knee in the familiar manner I've observed countless times before. And to think that his face was just as it always was. That same stone countenance armed with the eyes powerful enough to melt even the most stubborn of men. Therefore I couldn't believe, in that moment, that I was actually suppressing a smile.

"Well it worked, evidently."

His eyes narrowed at my remark as they pierced into my own, making it nearly impossible to break that stare. But much to my amusement, he leaned back and laughed as well.

"So it did! Well done."

My heart filled with warmth at seeing his brilliant smile, but I hastily wiped all mirth from my countenance. It was not a shared moment. Noticing the change in my mood, Sherlock Holmes sat up and regained his composure.

"So you know who I am." he stated cooly.

"Everybody does."

"And yet you claim my friendship."

"It's what I had to do to regain my freedom."

"Not it wasn't."

"It wasn't."

"You meeting me was a coincidence, it was never apart of your plan."

"I'm sure you were as surprised as I was."

"Indeed. What is your name?"

"James Moriarty."

"No it's not."

"How can you be sure?"

"The name's unnatural upon your lips, the small tremor betrayed you."

"You're right, it's not my name."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know what to call myself anymore."

"Oh, tut! What nonsense! I don't care if your former self died back at the war and you've started life anew, I want to know your name."

"You have a wonderful choice of words."

"I do. Now, if you'll please?"

Our back-and-forth came to a halt when I didn't answer him. He continued to hold my gaze as his right hand calmly rested over his chest.

"Why aren't you dead?" he breathed with perfect nonchalance.

"I..."

"I'm one of the most wanted men in London," he continued as though I never spoke. "Famous for my outlandish style of _disturbances_. I wouldn't hesitate to shoot a Lord any more than I would a lady, so why is it that you're still alive?"

"Can't you shoot me?" I asked slowly.

"You're obviously hiding your identity, so I cannot act until I solve this little mystery. Halloa, halloa, stranger! Tell me your secrets."

I turned away from him, unbuttoning my greatcoat and throwing it open. "Check my pockets. You'll be just as well informed either way."

He huffed a mirthless laugh and eased his hand into the lappet of his coat, languidly withdrawing the same pistol which shot the officer. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on-end when I saw the weapon in his hands, his finders lightly brushing over the cylinder and against the hammer. He looked up at me, his face betraying nothing, and watched in sick amusement as a sweat broke upon my forehead.

"Well?" he whispered in a soft voice.

I swallowed, not taking my eyes off the pistol. My mind was scattered, and this was the best I could think of, "Can you, if you'll be so kind, tell me what color my hair is?"

"Black as a raven's." he said smoothly.

That most certainly was _not_ right. None of this was right. He sat still across from me, both of us ignoring the cab's proffered seating, and continued to stare. Much to my surprise, he flipped the gun over his fingers so its grip was offered to my hand. I flashed him a confused look, and hesitantly raised my hand to take it.

"It's not loaded. Or maybe it is, I cannot remember."

I grabbed the gun and brought it forward to examine. It wasn't necessarily heavy, though at this close range, it really wouldn't make a difference. He watched in silence as I examined the chamber and checked if it was loaded. It was; four bullets sat calmly in wait.

"Who was the second man you shot?" I asked distractedly.

"There was none. The blood you felt was from the same man who tried to restrain you."

"You shot him twice?"

"Of course; I'm not a ruthless murderer."

"You handed me a loaded gun." I said after a slight pause. Looking up at him, I tempted myself. "So, what have you deduced from it?"

He quirked a brow at this, the corner of his mouth threatening a smile. "Interesting question. Very interesting, in fact. By doing so, I've confirmed quite a few details, but they're all trifles. I will say, however, that I now know you're right-handed."

"Because I can write better with one hand doesn't make the other incompetent." I warned, running my thumb over the oak grips and fingering the trigger guard. My hand was cold and it was all I could do to keep it from shaking. Was he toying with me? I had been handed a loaded gun right after being witness to possibly _two_ murders and the theft of a police coach. The bullets were genuine, as was the gun which still retained the scent of gunpowder. There had to be a catch to it; why else would he hand a mysterious stranger a gun when in such close quarters?

"I have no weapon, _James_. I am a puppet master who has clipped the strings waiting for his wooden child to dance its own dance."

Our eyes met, the trepidation evident in my uneasy stare.

"I eagerly await your decision."

He willingly placed the gun in my hand and I had no idea why he would do so unless he already knew I wouldn't pull the trigger. But what gave him the idea that I wouldn't? I tightened my grip, raising my arm, and slowly brought the tip of the barrel to his chest. I waited to see what he'd do. Maybe he would slap away my hand or tackle me before I could squeeze off a shot. As he was a criminal mastermind, maybe it was really _I_ who was held at gunpoint.

My arm began to shake under the prolonged strain of the gun, but I could not do it. He smiled and held out a hand. Reluctantly, I complied and returned the gun.

"Fascinating." was all he said upon the matter. "Now, my _friend_, I think we ought to continue this introduction privately. My digs aren't far, we'll walk the rest of the way."

"Must I adorn that bag over my face?"

"Certainly not, you're far to handsome to hide behind such inadequate rags. Besides, the people here will assume you a criminal and I a policemen. None want anything to do with _our_ lot so we won't be bothered. Just remember, if you try to remove yourself-"

"Yes, yes, I know what will happen. I'm not so stupid as to think I can get away."

"Capital. Let us depart." With that he stood and swung out the door, leaving me behind. I hesitated, my eyes falling to the deceased policeman at my feet. I sighed and made my way to the exit.

"By the way," Holmes said as I stepped out beside him. "I must admit to a small fib of mine from earlier. Your hair isn't black, it is actually more oaken with a tint of red. Does that please you?"

"Does it please me...?"

"Wonderful. Not another word, we've miles to walk and lots to think over."

I shrugged my shoulders and followed behind Sherlock Holmes; like I always did.

We made our way through the darkened streets, walking for what felt like hours as the passersby dwindled from a large crowd to a very few. Holmes said nothing to me nor made mention of our destination, we simply kept forward. But after a while, when my leg started to throb from the excess strain and bad weather, I found it extremely curious that the criminal leading me to his lair actually took note of my injury and paced his step with mine. Was it possible, I thought, that the gravity of this man's crimes were simply exaggerated? Though he did shoot an official merely out of frustration in having to _repeat_ _himself_, this Holmes still managed to pull off the same chivalry which made mine so exceptional! His ideas were dark, I admit, but who's to say the Detective's weren't?

I hadn't thought much of it at the time, but that he shot the already dead man, as opposed to adding another victim to his list, only supported his claim that he wasn't a ruthless murderer. But this didn't sedate me worry, however; I'd say it only worsened it because I couldn't even begin to postulate what else he could do to earn the reputation he possessed, especially if murder was out of the question.

And what of my state? The man spared me! For that, I was completely confused. I wouldn't put it past Holmes to toy with me for a while. I don't doubt that my time would be up the moment he grew bored, or... well, maybe I had some use for him.

Not to say I'd oblige him; it didn't even seem difficult to decide not to comply with anything he advised for me because I, for one, was not a criminal, nor should I bend to the wishes of one when nothing was at stake. I took it upon myself to do all I could to aid the police in bringing this man in if at all possible. All I had to do was survive long enough to obtain enough information to give them. I began by familiarizing myself with our path, noting special landmarks and how many paces before turning a corner, and so on. Holmes was probably aware of my doing this, so the best I could do was retain all that I could and hope to God it would be something.

"Do you know where we are?" he asked as we took yet another turn.

"I have the faintest idea," He hummed in satisfaction and said no more.

We arrived at an old storefront within seven minutes, Holmes retrieving a key from his pocket and unlocking the front door. I felt a sudden anxiety at the idea of being closed off with him in this building, and I honestly didn't know what to think of that. As I entered through the door I looked round myself and found that we were in an abandoned bookstore, though the shelves had been stripped and the volumes long gone. I found it funny that I naturally followed Holmes, despite my revulsion, and stayed along side him without restraints. It was a bit disturbing to think, actually, how utterly blind I could be because deep down, I still wasn't convinced.

That is, of course, what I thought before I found myself flying face-first into the wall.

My eyes watered profusely when I kissed the peeling paneling, my bottom lip bursting and the coppery feel of blood slicked over my teeth. I struggled to get up when I felt his knee stab into my back, my arms roughly pinned to the stairs.

"Alright James," he snarled in my ear. "It would be in your best interest to drop your act and tell me why you're here."

I tried to respond but he dug his knee deeper into my spine. All I could do was stifle my cries.

"There's simply no way around it, my friend. I grow weary of this _lie__!_"

"What- lie?" I spat out.

"You know very well what lie! My God, man! I've lost my composure to a blankard like you and I demand to know how it is you remain so calm in this situation!"

I tried to push him off but succeeded only in causing myself more pain. "You handed me a loaded gun," I grunted.

"And you refused to shoot me. I don't know what compelled me to give it to you nor what evoked my stillness to let you get that close, but you did. Why didn't you shoot!"

"Why didn't _you__!_"

He paused. I felt the pain in my back lift away, but my arms remained pinned. Holmes positioned himself so that we were seeing eye-to-eye. "I can kill you at any moment; I could have you thrown into the Themes in nothing more than your undergarments; for God's sake I could literally feed you to the dogs! Why didn't you pull the trigger!"

My composure faltered and I found I could no longer look at him. "I could never shoot you," I whispered.

His face was unreadable as he sat up, pushing my shoulders and having me sit against the wall. Still retaining his blank expression, he conjured the gun, cocked it, and swiftly had it pointed at my head.

"You're a military man, I know that much. Killing isn't a new concept for you, so why not take the opportunity every officer would trade his wife and child for? You could have saved countless lives if only you had done me in."

I offered to no conflict and willed the man to do what he wished. Something in his eyes and the sporadic manner in which he spoke assured me that I was in no danger. Just as I surmised, he backed down.

"Why aren't you dead?" he asked. "For all that matter, why aren't I dead? Why have we not killed each other when the opportunity presented itself?"

"Because that'd be impossible." I replied severely, ignoring the gun and looking him in the eyes.

"You don't know me-"

"I know you better than you think, Holmes."

"Prove it." he sneered.

I regarded him for a few moments, searching my memory for any _minute_ detail that only I would know. I recalled a small event. "Your left canine is false."

He licked his lip nervously and stood up, turning his back to me. "Your vexation ill serves you. But if this is the game you wish to play, then so be it." His fingers wrapped tightly round my wrist as he tugged me to my feet. My leg protested at the sudden change in position, but I tried my best to ignore it.

I was lead through a narrow hallway to a door at the end of our path where we entered a fairly large room fully furnished yet offering a wide space. My eyes instantly fell upon the neglected pipe cast haphazardly over a newspaper which lay on a small table. There was no chemical table nor shelves stocked with books and index, though it had just enough personal touches to assure me that this was Holmes' room. Or one of them, at least. Not stopping to linger, I was lead to a second door which opened to a smaller jointed room, though it too has a fair share of comforts.

"You seem well off." I remarked in some surprise.

"Unfortunately, so do you," He released me presently and proceeded to the window on the opposite side of the room. I watched for a few moments in attempt to surmise his thoughts, but finally gave up as I deemed it impossible. I simply had to be satisfied that we weren't currently trying to kill each other.

And so, there we were.

I heard Holmes sigh after a long spell of meditation before he reluctantly pushed away from the window and turned toward me. "I've decided to keep you here for now. There's but one way out of this room, and that's through the door which leads to mine. If you make any attempts, I will stop you. And if you try the window, well, I hope in that case you are able to survive the fall." he paused in his brief instruction and looked at me through quizzical eyes. "Will you make any attempts?"

I quirked my lip and look round the room. "No, I won't."

"That's very good of you. Don't worry about food or clothing, in fact... feel free to explore the building. Just promise me you'll remain in this room at night and whenever I instruct you to do so."

Again I nodded my understanding. He looked shaken and unsure of himself as I observed him. He was biting his lip and crossed his arms most severely across his chest; almost as if he were physically trying to hold himself together. I thought the situation on the staircase was odd in its random yet brief occurrence, yet Holmes, it seemed, was taking it more seriously than I. As I looked at him in that moment, I could feel all the hatred I held in the cab dissipating, if only because this Holmes shared the same singular behaviors that I was so accustomed to.

I had no inclination to bow to this man's complete will as I felt strongly about doing what I knew was right by the law, but I found myself asking him to wait when I saw that he intended to leave. He hesitated at the door, turning his attentions to me. I had no idea where the impulse came from, but in a reassured voice, I plainly stated, "My name is Watson, John Watson, and I am a doctor."

"A doctor?" he muttered to himself. He smirked and turned out the room, closing the door behind him. My brief moments of confidence quickly dissipated as I realized what I had done. I gave in to the criminal and offered up my name. But what worry was that to me? No one knew me here because I died at a young age during the war, again I assume, just as lonely as I was back home. I made my way to the bed and collapsed, my exhaustion pouncing upon me without my even being aware of it. As my eyes slid shut, the events of the day raced through my mind; Lestrade, my dwindling respect for Hopkins, the impending trial, and finally, a sick alteration to my fate meeting with Sherlock Holmes. I couldn't help but smile as unconsciousness nearly had me, that just as before, I met Holmes in the exact same state I did back home; my nerves in a rut and my condition like that of a broken machine.

I was soon lost to sleep in the room where I was to be prisoner.


	4. Chapter 4

It was about noon when I awoke next morning. Feeling not at all rested, I came to the realization that I still wore the clothes I had prior to this journey of mine and wanted nothing more than to be rid of them. Aside from that, the entire left side of my face was damp from drool; my punishment for falling into a dead sleep while on my stomach. I rolled off my bed, rubbing a hand over the rough stubble of my chin determining the necessity of a shave. I felt a slight sting as I brushed over my burst lip, and looking down in slight dismay, I saw that my pillow had been stained with blood. I wondered if Holmes would mind.

Not knowing what to expect with this new day, it took a whole of twenty minutes before I could muster up the courage to open my door and peer into the next room. Immense relief at the sight of my evident solitude encouraged me to step through.

Holmes was gone, and I was alone.

Now that I accomplished stepping foot into _his_ domain, what was to be my next action? Escape was surely one thing, but I'd be stupid to attempt it so early in my capture. Of course Holmes would be expecting me to do just that, and so I was sure I was well fortified against such notions. I figured the best way to accomplish my end goal would be to lay low for a few days, allow Holmes to lower his suspicion, and then take my departure. Oh, but for how long must I wait! Even in my world Holmes wasn't a very trusting man; least not one to be fooled by such trivial ploys. And yet I felt that I was in no danger, despite all things. That was most curious and one of the few factors which saw me bewildered out of typical behavior one would expect from a criminal's hostage.

I had to gain his trust; it was the only way. If I were to play along with his games, gain a place into his confidences, I would be granted free reign to which I could take advantage and flee. But how would this work out? Must I myself become a criminal to appease him? Would I be an accomplice, or someone who worked behind the lines? I would not take the life of anyone in his name, I decided, but surely I could be of some use to him. Well, my presence appealed to Holmes the detective, I only had to hope it would appeal to Holmes the criminal as well.

Stepping round the room, I examined the dwellings of London's most wanted criminal. I spent a few moments looking at his bed with its unmade sheets, the various objects which littered the floor along with a multitude of books and enclosed baggage. I also kept an eye out for similarities which would tie this Holmes to the one at Baker Street. The pipe was evidently still apart of him, though I saw only one in the room; Holmes didn't appear to be a chemist, at least not at this location; and finally, I saw no trace of a violin case laying about or against a wall. A small part of me felt relief at its absence.

Thinking it would be interesting to read the news of this world, I ventured to catch myself up on the current events by reading the paper I saw from last night. But alas, it was of no use to me. I cast the articles aside when I noted that this particular issue was over a year old. Aside from that, it was also in French. I knew the language well enough, but I didn't want to rely on the French opinion on English news; I wanted to shave. The singularly dangerous idea of borrowing Holmes' razor, if I could find it, actually seemed appealing- it would be worth the possible trouble!

I was again on my feet and wondering round the room when my eye caught sight of a note placed on his bed where I must have missed it the first time. Reaching over, I picked it up and unfolded it to reveal a short missive on my morning affairs. It ran as follows:

_"If you plan to escape, do so before 1 p.m. for that is when I intend to return. You will find everything you need on the chair beside your door in my room. Forgive me for not delivering this note, or provisions, directly to you; I thought it'd be rude of me to intrude upon your sleep. I suppose if you've ventured far enough from your haven to find this on my bed, then pray, go farther and inspect the halls; you'll need to do so to reach the bathroom, anyway. Again, I advise against leaving this building entirely though I trust this warning is quite unnecessary. Formalities, Doctor."_

I peered over my shoulder at the aforementioned chair. I seemed to have overlooked it. I seemed to have overlooked a lot of things. There was a bundle of neatly folded trousers and shirtsleeves along with a small box containing a single-blade razor- it was strikingly bizarre. On any normal day, I'd be apprehensive about borrowing a criminal's clothing, but it was a trivial argument that morning. I lifted the proffered items and made my way to the door, folding the note and slipping it in my pocket.

I dressed in silence, avoiding the mirror as much as I naturally could. I figured that seeing my face may confirm things I had wished to stay ignorant of. What was it I feared? I feared looking into the mirror and not recognizing the man who stared back at me. I was afraid to see the real deposition I was in along with how far I've gone from the usually pristine cleanliness I favored in simpler times. A shave was enough to hide the woes of past events, but eyes were rarely as easily purged.

When at long last I could no longer put off my reflection, I took up the razor, slopped the lather over my chin, and turned to the watching spectator. The blade slid smoothly down my face with the small prickle of course hairs being sliced away and washed into the bin. My hands were steady as I gently and carefully maneuvered round my mustache so as not to deplete its shape. The water was unusually cool to my nervous fingers and exceptionally refreshing over the roughly shaven skin. I rolled back my shoulders and leaned forward, my face inches away form the reflective surface. I stared into those miserable eyes the entire time I had the blade in my hand.

I felt an odd sensation building up in my forearm and the sudden desire to punch the wall seemed the only solution to quelling it. I raised my fist, still clutching the razor, and nearly lashed out at that haggard form of a man.

"Pray, don't take it out on the mirror,"

I heard the offhand voice from behind me. It wasn't by his reflection in the mirror that I knew Holmes had returned, but the familiar bode of his eyes scrutinizing my actions that stopped me. I didn't hesitate in my movements, but in the last moment I settled on hurtling the razor as forcibly as I could into the mirror.

It clinked innocently to the ground, leaving me looking like a mad man with his head hung and shoulders slouched at the straining water basin.

"I thought I heard you, Doctor. It assures of a great many things." said he, stepping away from the wall where he leant and rounded back towards the hall.

The force of my anger had barely chipped the surface.

I left the discarded clothes where I dropped them, as well as the deadly razor. I hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours, and yet my stomach remained docile. Holmes was sprawled on the sofa when I reentered the room, one leg braced on the ground while his right forearm hung languidly over his face. Apprehensively, I sat myself in the armchair beside him.

"I trust your bearings have improved?" he asked after some time.

"Yes, thank you."

"Don't thank me, Doctor. It's an untold rule never to thank a criminal."

"Of course..." my brain pounded against my skull as nauseating delirium clouded my mind. I sunk deeper into my chair and closed my eyes. There was a broiling feel in my gut as I sat, the entire room feeling like a furnace with a constant pressure blowing unearthly cool air over my neck; it was like sitting down to tea with a corpse, however that may feel. I tried to distract myself by inquiring Holmes' whereabouts.

"Nowhere an established gentleman such as yourself ought to be concerned. You may be allowed to dwell here, but do not pry into my business."

"What the deuce am I supposed to do here, then?" I ask rather harshly.

He was silent at first, and then, "Work on your escape plan, it'll be enjoyable both to you and to me."

"The last thing I want to do is bring you joy at my own expense. How you can sit there toying with me as if I were a simple lab rat is insufferable."

"Which is why you've outlived your counterparts. The smart rat which exhibits the more singular habits will be the one to hold on to."

"And when will you let the poor creature be at peace?"

"When it's exhausted my interest. But that's a matter for another day; as of right now, my skittish little mouse will entreat me to less significant tests. He will act, and I will observe."

"I've been bitten by a lab rat once, he didn't like the way I treated him."

"Oh, you can believe me right, Doctor, when I say that I've been bitten more than what really counts. I always come out none the worse, but I can't say the same for our disreputable creatures."

So, this is how he wanted to play it.

I sat up and looked at him, my eyes steely as he sat unnoticing in his simple repose. "You seem rather positive that I'll escape,"

"On the contrary, Doctor, I have every confidence that you won't. But a military man such as yourself could hardly stand being confined for a long time without the correct course of action being taken, am I correct?"

"I'm not going to ask you how you knew about my service." I stated solidly. I could hear him sitting up, though not in a rushed manner. His feet stretched onto the table and he braced himself on one arm, facing me. "And why not?"

"Is that what they usually do? Do you take one glance at your victim and deduce their life story before killing them?" I too sat up and faced him.

"No one's ever asked."

"What a shame. A waste, really."

"They never ask because I _never_ tell them. I never tell anybody."

This was surprising until I realized that he probably never had anyone to tell it to. "Had it anything to do with the gun?" I ventured to ask.

He turned away from me, setting his face at a profile from my angle, and idly playing with a loose thread on his trousers. It was as though I could see the gears moving in his head, trying to decide if he should speak. Finally, he turned and looked at me, smiling, and with that mischievous glint in his eye. That small detail was the one thing that I could always read about Sherlock Holmes. "As I've said, Doctor, I never tell anyone."

"I'm not anyone,"

"Ah, but you are still my victim."

"Am I really? Should I fear for my life; plague my dreams with the innumerable possibilities of your doing away with me?"

He sighed. "I'm thinking that maybe I should have pushed you off with the others."

A chill shot down my spine at that. I'd completely forgotten about the other occupants of the cab and what had become of them. I may have mumbled a few incoherent words, but ultimately I let my head sink upon my chest and I said no more.

Perhaps again he was watching me, or maybe he wasn't, but Holmes gave in and told me. "I could tell by the way you handled the gun that you were someone used to having one. A good many in this city hold possession of arms, however, not all of them are as careful nor as calm around them as you were. Not only did you check if the chambers were loaded, but you also made sure the barrel was clear. I also couldn't help but notice that you had the habit of holding it in such way so as not to harm anyone should the thing accidentally fire. Maybe your father taught you well, but I knew that wasn't the whole of it as you also carry a militant air about you." Here, he laughed. "And I know you're not a policeman! Dear me, even the greatest of them know respect in my presence! Only a soldier would be stupid enough to stand off against me as you have."

That wasn't necessarily true, but I kept my mouth shut.

"Anyhow, Doctor, are you hungry?"

"What?"

"I may be cold, but I'm not about to starve you. Heaven knows if I wanted you dead, it'd be done much faster and easier with a bullet."

"Yes, I suppose you are correct in thinking so." I sat back, far back, until my knees were very far from the edge of the seat and my shoulders braced at arm-level. "Perhaps I'll starve myself, force you to take me out somewhere, and make my escape."

"You have my honest word when I bid you good luck on your endeavors. In the meanwhile, I've got things to attend to."

He got up and reached for his coat, slipping it over his shoulders as he picked up a few loose items. His feet swiftly carried him to the door. But before he would be out of earshot, I mumbled my concern. "Whose son are you going to murder today?"

I was met by silence before he broke out in a loud, sonorous laugh. "If I dare say, I think he's already killed them himself!" His laughter continued to echo down the hall as his steps carried him farther away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Pardon my French.**

* * *

For the remainder of the day I found myself scouting the building, just as Holmes had proposed. Stepping out of the bedroom, past the hall while ignoring each door to my left and to my right, I proceeded down the stairs. In the back of my mind I knew I should have been feeling some sort of apprehension or else an anxiety at least, but I found that I was filled with curiosity above all else. My feet stepped carefully down one step at a time and I passed by the flat of stairs where our violent incident took place. The slight smudge of blood- my blood- was beginning to congeal and darken into a deep rust color. I didn't linger too long and soon found myself in a depressing library.

This room was small and dark with the distinct scent of mildew and stale air. A few books lay along the floor and some remained shelved. Reaching up, I picked out a small red volume and flicked open to the center page. The cover strained as I examined the faded ink and stuck pages; my eyes running over the barely legible words as I tried to decipher what it was about. Being unsuccessful in my endeavors, I deciding to pocket it and try again later.

Making my way from there I found an empty cellar, a disheveled kitchen, a sitting room, a small cabinet containing a broken broom, and finally, the waiting room with which I had first entered. I stood cautiously before the foggy windows and peered out into the street. We were situated in an alley, thus foot traffic was to both sides yet hardly trickling past the storefront.

I thought about opening the door and simply stepping out, but I must confess that I was reluctant to do so. Not because Holmes advised so harshly against it, and I harboring no doubt that he would indeed act upon his words, but because I honestly found myself fascinated by the man all over again. Try as I might, I could not stay angry at this man who deserved every bit of disgust I could possibly muster. However, much like when I first met Sherlock Holmes, I was keenly interested to see what he would do next. The prospect of the crimes he was guilty of hung heavily over my own mind, I admit, but nonetheless I couldn't help myself. When presented with the opportunity to bring him in, however, I knew I would not hesitate. Holmes was my friend, but this was not _my_ Holmes nor was he now of ever above the law.

It was probably a smarter idea to return to my rooms upstairs so as to stay out of view from any passing civilians, but I decided it didn't matter, nor did I care. The windows were filthy enough to distort my image, and so I comfortably sat myself on the counter and set to writing in my newly declared journal. I had found a pen in one of the rooms and so long as I drew dark enough, it would be legible over the preexisting ink.

I didn't write about my current adventure nor did I write about this new London or how I would get back, and I certainly didn't write about Sherlock Holmes. Instead, I wrote a letter addressed to myself, telling of childhood memories which eventually lead to me penning a small story about nothing in particular. When I reread what I had written, it reminded me of a case Holmes had completed a few months back and I, despite all intentions, found the opening narrative to a new case slowly appearing on the pages before me.

I don't know how long I sat there, my pen running across the pages so vehemently that I only noticed the time by the sudden shroud of darkness which enveloped my work. I closed the book with satisfaction and replaced it in my pocket. Standing up, stretching my stiff muscles, I was surprised at the sudden pang of hunger I felt. Of course, I hadn't eaten since the day before so naturally I was feeling famished. I was about to climb the stairs in search of food, when I heard a heavy step sound near the front door. I turned to find Holmes slumped against the frame, husbanding his shoulder. I rushed to meet him when I was suddenly aware of a nasty gash across his collarbone and a good deal of blood soaking through his fingers.

"Good God, man! What did you do to yourself?"

He laughed, pushing me aside and attempting the stairs. "Oh, just a minor setback, Doctor. I never waste my time on simple laborers, so naturally, my game is a bit more… risky."

"Are you stabbed? What happened?"

He made it about half way up the stairs before he had to stop and catch his breath, his hands were visibly shaking and his cheeks were flushed. "Nothing of importance. I did my job, that is all that matters."

A chill shot down my spine with the gravity of his words. Instead of implying that he'd captured a criminal and set a family at ease, he was in this case only successful of _eluding_ those trying to do good. I bit my lip at this reminder before I ran a hand down my face and came up behind him. I grabbed his elbow, transferring some of his weight to my shoulder. "Here, allow me. You shouldn't exert yourself until I've had a look at it."

He seemed hesitant at first, but offered no protest. "I seem to have acquired myself a doctor, how _parfait une situation_."

I laughed, he smiled, and it all was so terribly wrong.

* * *

"I was a surgeon in the army; we've seen all types of injury, but I don't think I've ever seen nor heard of anything like this."

"And I've taken on many a man, and I must agree that nothing like this has ever happened to me before."

I sighed and returned the needle to its case, Holmes turning away from me and fastening the buttons of his shirt sleeve.

"Yes, well, I trust you'll guard yourself better now."

"I suppose so, yes." He hopped off the table and gently sat himself down on the sofa. "I dare say, I doubt I'll ever be confronted with the prongs of a taxidermic deer head ever again. That Parkins had one on hand so soon after I disarmed him was a move not even I could have perceived." Holmes was now leaning back, his eyes closed, and completely unguarded. I was hoping he'd feel at least a small bit of trepidation with me in the room, a pistol clearly in view, but it never occurred to him that I may use it. He was right in assuming so, but my thoughts remained.

I was studying his posture when I realized how his neck was fully exposed, and I couldn't help thinking how easily it could be slit. Not to say I intended to do so myself, but he was leaving himself wide open. Holmes was right in stating that should the need to kill arise, I would not hesitate, however, I figured a dead Holmes would be useless to me in trying to find a way home.

My stomach protested at my delay, once again reminding me that I'd been ignoring it. "Holmes," I called. "Are you at all hungry?"

His head rolled lazily to face me, his lids hardly giving the effort to lift while his lips pulled into a mocking smirk. "Why Doctor, you must forgive me. I offered you food earlier only to distract myself with a personal calling. I actually don't have any food in this room, nor anywhere in this entire building."

I groaned at his remark.

Smiling at my reaction, he folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. "As I've said before, I don't pick up strays and bring them under my wing. When it comes to other people, my only interaction with them is business, and of that business, the person with whom I'm connected is either pulling their weight in joint crime or they're falling to the floor. Sometimes both, depending on all sorts of oddities. So here, Doctor, is where I make my proposal."

"Your proposal?"

"Correct. If you want food and continued use of that spare room, then you're going to have to accompany me."

"What!"

"Do you understand your options?"

"I... well yes, but you can't possibly-"

"A doctor would be a much needed device in my escapades and I must- hah! Well I must also admit to some personal liking of your company! That being said, I hope for the assurance of your accompanying me tomorrow evening. What do you say?"

"What do I say? I refuse! I would much rather rot away in an alley from malnourishment than become a... a _device_ in your dastardly plans!"

"Dear me, are you certain?"

"As certain as I've ever been!"

"Oh, Doctor!" this mad man was actually laughing! "Doctor, Doctor, you make it so very difficult for me to _want_ to kill you! You've the endearing qualities which one would exalt in a partner! I'm confident, however, that I will be able to convince you yet."

I really shouldn't have been surprised by this turn of events. Knowing the way Holmes worked he'd of course do things his own way but the man wasn't one to collect useless artifacts and eccentricities. This is the reason we've never had a dog at Baker Street despite Holmes' liking of the beasts; to care for and to acknowledge was asking too much from the detective. I'd been sitting idle for too long, never taking the opportunity to better my situation or take any steps towards convincing Holmes to help me find a way home. But looking at the man before me, his expression one of a satisfied street magician, I felt no inclination to play fairly.

By that point I was sputtering in rage. I looked to the nearest object, and used it in my ploy. "There's a revolver on the table," I picked it up and checked the chambers. This gun was becoming a popular toy between us. "If I were to put a bullet through my brain, I would be freed from your devilish plans and you'd be left with nothing but a body. What's stopping me from doing it?"

"I don't know, what _is_ stopping you?" He regarded me with an indifferent expression though I could see that he'd paled considerably. Perhaps he saw something in my eyes, which wouldn't be completely off as my finger wasn't as light on the trigger as one with no intentions of pulling would hold it. "Please, I've seen many a man take that rout and all because they were too stupid to see the better alternative."

"It's a stupid proposal," I said slowly. "from both our accounts. If I give in to you I will sully everything I stand for; if I kill myself, well, hopefully the Lord will see why I had to do it. Either way, you come out unscathed while I must suffer no matter which hand I play."

"For God's sake, man, put down the pistol!"

"Don't you see how meaningless this all is! What are we doing but acting as children who don't get their way! We ought to both put a bullet through our brains and leave London the better for-" I didn't have time to finish before Holmes was up out of his seat, retching the gun from my grasp and flinging it across the room. He firmly grasped the lapel of my coat and slapped me across the face.

"If you don't pull yourself together, John Watson, there are other ways to die out there than by my hand. I am offering you an escape; take it and you'll find that you've been living the life of a criminal the entire time. But if you choose to ignore the intellect which I know you harbor, if you decide to pull that trigger despite everything, then I want you to do it right here, right now, looking me in the eyes."

My jolt of confidence disappeared with the feeling in my cheek as I was now left with nothing but horror in my chest. I stared at Holmes, disbelievingly. "I think you underestimate me, Doctor. I don't know you on a personal level but I know the type of person you are. When you pull that trigger, I want you to see the man whose face you've spit in."

"Why won't you just let me go?" I demand from behind a faulty mask.

Holmes looked away, leaving me on the floor as he regained his seat. "I could ask you the same thing."

My hand was shaking as I raised my arm to wipe the sweat from my brow. However, before I could do that I had looked down to see my sleeve had been blotted with blood. My first reaction was to look at Holmes and, sure enough, a bright red ooze has begun to seep through his clothing. The exertions must have reopened the stitches.

"You're bleeding again," I said factually, taking the seat next to him on the couch.

Holmes squinted his eyes at me before giving a mirthless chuckle. "It's amazing how quickly you can do that."

I pressed a finger to the soiled cloth to find where it had reopened. "As a doctor, I am trained to help any patient despite whatever quarrel may exist between us. Even if I am repairing a man I'd rather see suffer."

Holmes had remained quiet as I went to work. After the silence between us became too insufferable, I decided to apologize.

"I'm sorry, about the gun and all that... I'm not sure what came over me, I'm usually able to handle myself much better in difficult situations."

"I won't lie and say I'm sorry for proposing what I did." he responded assuredly.

"Naturally. But you must admit Holmes, you put me in a very difficult situation."

"I did no such thing; it was a very modest proposal."

I nodded in defeat, dressing the rest of the wounds in silence.

I had fallen asleep slumped on the sofa but was soon awakened by the aroma of food. It was still night, or early morning, as my unrested state and darkened windows suggested. I looked down at the package sitting on the table before me. It was a sandwich wrapped in paper, the moisture from the meat spreading over the wrappings. I tore away the paper and had consumed half the sandwich in a few blissful mouthfuls.

"Are you a writer?"

I choked down my food. "What?"

"I found this book in your pocket while you were sleeping," My hands dropped the bread and instantly flew to the side pocket where I've been keeping my journal. It was gone. Slightly horrified in that there were case notes written up recently, I turned round to find Holmes sitting on his bed and leafing through the pages.

He looked up at my speechless reaction and laughed.

"There's no need to worry, Doctor, I'm only curious."

"H-how far did you read?"

"Oh, let's see... I think I've read the first part once but that second story I've read about five times."

"Dear me..."

"It really is most singular, Doctor. What compelled you to write me as a detective? It's a very strange thing of you to do," he chuckled. "But I must say, you've captured my character perfectly well. Had I been on the other side of the law, I'm sure I'd act exactly like this."

"Why were you looking through my pockets?"

"A later time, Doctor. I'm rather more interested in this tale you've written. What is it, exactly?"

I stuttered, not having an excuse at the ready. "It's ah... well, in spite of boredom, I suppose..."

"Hnn. Most people don't write others into fictions such at this. You're a strange man, Dr. Watson."

I shakily turned back to my food though all my appetite was gone. The one thing I could be thankful for was that I wasn't present for that particular case. Explaining why I made ourselves out to be flatmates and also close friends would have been difficult to explain.

"I must commemorate you on this, I find it delightful and yet equally peculiar. Your romanticism is intriguing."

"Yes, well, boredom has encouraged gross exaggeration on my part, as you can see my imagination is quite convoluted."

"Yes, quite so. Have you eaten your fill, Doctor? Wonderful! Then you have accepted my invitation. Rest up, we've a long night ahead of us."

Little did I know just how long that night would be.

* * *

_**"...dastardly plans"**_**Haha how Saturday morning!**

**We need a change in scenery. I look forward to the next chapter.**


	6. Chapter 6

I followed with a stiff docility**,**though I could swear a war breaking within myself. A part of me was apprehensive while another was thrilled at the impending scene which would surely take place. What exactly we set out to do I had no idea; Holmes hadn't had any contacts, no plan to discuss, he simply apprehended my company for his use no matter sinister that may prove to be. There was one thing which he assured me, however, and that was that no blood would be spilled by my hands. That reassurance was nothing more than provocation, however.

Our journey took us by foot from Holmes' digs down the street and through a few winding bends. I asked on multiple occasion to what atrocity we were committing tonight, and with each inquisition I was met with either a sarcastic response or none at all. I tried to apply my friend's methods by observing what this criminal had on his person that could possibly take part in his crime. Holmes was wearing a black woolen great coat over the usual collar and frock, and in terms of arsenal we had both come equipped with arms (I with an empty revolver; I was told that should the need arise, I would be supplied with ammunition) though Holmes had, no doubt, a few other hidden instruments. But aside from the necessary items, he had left the building empty handed. This meant that an immense burglary or intricate trap was out of the question and yet I couldn't overrule it completely. So these being the facts, we were either going to apprehend our denizens with what we carried or else Holmes had more means stockpiled else where.

I didn't feel the fullest effects of turmoil until we arrived at the home which we were to enter. It was a handsome estate surrounded by other, equally prodigious settlings. No lights could be seen from our vantage point but by the seclusion of its walls I could easily piece together our mode of entrance. I turned to Holmes and wordlessly scrutinized our presence here.

My possessor ignored this stare and, taking my wrist in his hand, lead me to the outskirts of the house. Taking to the service entrance round the back, Holmes had produced a set of keys and went to work unlocking the door. This seemed peculiar to me, not only because it was a common scene to my eyes, but because upon looking barely ten feet overhead, one could clearly see a window set ajar. I don't mean to say that I thought all criminals entered thorough unnecessary means, but I thought it exceedingly careless to work in our current circumstance.

Crouching next to Holmes, I pluck at his sleeve and brought forth my observation.

"If you'd only allow me my methods, Doctor. I know the window is open, and I know why you think it a problem. But truth be told, every light in the house could be on with little to no effect on my purpose."

Surmounting anger had been suppressed up until now. Not in a full retaliation, I still aimed to be a hindrance to Holmes' scheme. And so, just before he could unlock the door, I kicked it open with a loud bang. I saw his features jerk back in annoyance, but he said nothing.

We silently made our way through the servant's quarters and up to the kitchen. It made me feel sick to the stomach imagining this home in day light where everything was as it should be and nothing could hide; not like now, in the unsettling stillness, two men treading on carpets not meant to be tread by their shoes. These very shoes carried a master criminal and his hesitant prisoner into an impressive bedroom on the third floor. It was spacious and tasteful with an Eastern styled bedpost in the middle of the room; to the sides stood a dresser, a writing desk, a few trunks, and countless personal effects hung on the wall. To the far left of the room was the carved door to a closet to which we, rather, Holmes, made his destination.

The guilt of allowing him to drag me this far was beginning to bear heavily upon my mind and I wanted nothing more than to form a compromise in my participation.

"Holmes," I whispered into the darkness.

"Yes, what is it?" he replied harshly.

"Please, I implore you, don't-"

"None of that, Doctor!" He cut me off with a violent wave of his hand. "If all goes well, you'll have nothing to worry about. Just allow me to lead, and we'll be on our way." He resumed his place by the closet door, his fingers running gently over the deep carvings.

My heart was racing. "Is my presence really necessary or are you just trying to... prove a _point_?"

"I will not argue my case with you. Don't waste your breath on useless importune."

"Holmes, for God's sake, I can't even think straight! I don't know how I may act-"

"You will act as I instruct you to act! Pray don't make me repeat myself concerning your involvement again. My temper is running short as it is."

Panic began to cloud my mind, the heat overbearing despite the cool temperatures shrouding the house. My voice began to take on a pleading tone. "Then allow me some margin of understanding, Holmes, please. Let... God, I could act as lookout or- or I can scout round the house and secure it-"

"Your nerves are more frail than those in _Bedlam_, Doctor Watson. Perhaps I've overestimated your character," His voice was laced with venom as his long stride brought him directly before me. I found myself retreating from his looming figure until I felt the wall against my back. Holmes still came forward, tilting his head until his face was a mere few inches from my own. "Perhaps you're more dispensable than I thought; the trigger won't be so stubborn next time, I think."

The steady breath from when he spoke blew softly over my face though the implications were far from gentle. I turned away as far as he'd allow, closing my eyes and waiting for a strike. I believe he would have done so, if not for the sound of a door closing downstairs. Holmes snapped in the direction of the sound, his intimidation forgotten completely as we both fell silent. It sounded like one person in no state of worry; obviously they remained oblivious to our presence. Holmes gave me one last warning before once more taking possession of my wrist and pulling me out of the room.

Quickly, though with immense stealth, we bolted from the bedroom, down a hall and through a second set of doors leading to a well used study. Holmes dropped my hand the moment the door closed behind us in favor of picking out his revolver. All excitement left his movement as he cooly leaned against the desk and retrieved a few cartridges from his pocket. I stood in the middle of the room where Holmes had left me, my arms hanging limply at my sides. I didn't know what to do with myself. I had thought the anger and intent of ruining Holmes' mission would be enough to baricade my emotions and yet here I found myself on the brink of a panic attack. Holmes looked at me once that infernal _gun_ was loaded.

In a subdued whisper, he gave me my orders. "Alright, Doctor, here's what's going down. The moment our man steps into this room- which he will- the first thing he'll see upon entering will be me. He will then assume the role all persons in his place favor and beg me to spare his life. We've business that goes a few weeks back, so never you mind about the details. If he's in a chatty mood, perhaps you'll pick up bits and pieces of the affair. If not, then, well, we'll live our lives just as fruitfully. Dear me, he's got to be past the stairs now, time is wearing thin. Anyhow, I am prepared to hear him out. If he has what he owes me, than we will leave here immediately. If not, then I'm afraid I must hold up _my_ part of the bargain. I'm fairly certain that should things go that way, I'll be able to handle him myself. But since you're here I'll take advantage of your assistance. Should he overtake me, my life will be in your hands, Doctor. Shoot him, club him, whatever you like; it means nothing to me. Have I made myself clear?"

I nodded, reluctantly, and sought the weight of my empty revolver for comfort.

"Capital. I imagine we'll be seeing our client at any moment." He said this with a smile, those grey eyes positively glowing with excitement. It was much like Holmes, I decided, and it was in that moment that I finally stopped comparing these two men that were undoubtedly the _same_ _person_.

Our heavy wait lasted only a few minutes more until I heard the light foot fall from beyond the door. Holmes resettled his position against the drawing desk, breathing in a lung-full of confidence while I sidled closely against the curtains behind him.

The knob jiggled before the oaken door swung open just enough to admit its person. I looked in absolute dread at the face which met my eyes.

It was a woman. She can't have been more that eight and twenty by which the youth in her face was so utterly apparent. She had tired eyes which told of a life full of despair; the only blemish to mar her remarkable features. She hadn't noticed that the room was occupied, and so you can only imagine the sheer look of horror upon seeing Holmes at her desk.

"Good evening, Mrs. Pelham."

"Who are you?" she asked in a startled voice.

"I'm here to see your husband, Quentin."

"He's not here," said she, bending down to pick up her dropped packets.

"Well I can see that. Will he be joining us shortly?"

"I'm afraid he's out on business, he won't be back until Monday..."

"Dear me, that is a problem." Holmes looked off the the side, imposing the image of deep thought. But I knew better than to fall for his trap; he had a plan for this unexpected development. He looked up at the lady and graced her with a devious smile. In a soft, contemplative whisper, he said, "Then I suppose the matter will have to be dealt between us, my lady."

I looked nervously between them, Holmes expressing every bit of controlled sensibility while the unfortunate woman looked like a hare before the fox. I saw a tear slide down her cheek as her lips trembled. "Please, my husband isn't home. I-"

Holmes chuckled. "That won't due, Mrs. Pelham! The matter must be addressed tonight or all will have been a waste. Come now, don't look so terrified; simply give me what I've come to collect, and tomorrow your life will be as it should have been all these months!" He was now half way across the room and guiding the lady by her elbow. I wanted to intervene, and yet I found my feet cemented to the ground. All I could do was stare in bewilderment as she succumbed to his wishes.

"What's the matter? Hasn't your husband told you of his business? No? I am shocked!"

"What! What business?" She pleaded.

"You must tell me, Pelham," he had now grasped both her arms firmly in his hands until her tears flew more readily. "No tears, they will accomplish nothing! I need you to tell me where your husband is."

"I won't!" she screamed. "I won't tell you anything!"

"Don't be so incompetent, woman! You do nothing but further your husbands depravity by not cooperating with me."

With a desperate attempt, the lady was able to wretch her arms free and thusly whip a hand across Holmes' face. My hand instantly went to my revolver, but it was of no use. Holmes slowly restored his glare and, with more force than was necessary, returned the gesture, knocking her to the floor. I rushed to her aid but was forcibly knocked back by Holmes as he roughly brought her back to her feet.

"I'm no longer playing games with you. Tell me the whereabouts of your husband or you shall both be dead before the morrow."

A fire burned in her eyes as she bravely responded, "I would rather _die_ than betray him."

Time seemed to stop all together.

Holmes was still as he took this into consideration. For a brief moment his brows were drawn in the crossroads. I had the miniscule hope that that was the end of things, but I should have known better than to have such childish hopes. In a completely sinister voice, he whispered, "Then so be it."

He shoved Lady Pelham to the floor and withdrew his revolver in one swift movement. He was about to take aim when my senses returned to me and I launched myself at the criminal, clasping my arms over his and pinning them to his waist as we crashed to the ground.

"Get out of here!" I shouted. "For God's sake, run!"

"What the devil are you doing- get off of me!"

I struggled with Holmes, his strength overpowering my own like I never would have thought possible, but I held fast. The lady stared at me in awestruck amazement.

"Get away from here- anywhere, go wherever's safe but-gah! don't alert the police!"

We were now tossing on the ground with Holmes cursing my name with every bit of black anger he could muster. My hold on him was beginning to falter, but the lady finally heeded my warnings and quickly dashed from the room. Holmes started to spit rapid words in French, and I understood each and every one.

"Let me be!" he screamed.

"I will not allow you to- to murder an innocent woman!"

"I will murder you! I swear to God I will mutilate your body until it's hardy recognizable as being human! Your eyes will be first and then I'll cut that accursed tongue from your mouth and- Goddamn you you incompetent fiend!"

"I would rather that than allowing you to further this _game_!"

Holmes was finally able to twist his body so that he was no longer beneath me. As soon as he had the advantage, he balled his hand into a fist and sent it thundering down upon my jaw. In a blind fury his hits landed with exacted precision; each with the power to knock out a sturdiest opponent let alone a crippled doctor. I had covered my face with my arms, only to find that none of those hits had been directed at me. I lowered my defense, looking through the pain from the first punch, and tried to distinguish Holmes' expression. His eyes were squeezed shut and his breathing labored. There was a tense pause in which neither of us moved. Holmes finally removed himself and staggered to his feet with no acknowledgment to myself, making his way to the safe. I closed my eyes and released the breath I'd been holding since entering the house.

The gears tumbled to a soft tone, the knob smoothly turning this way and that as Holmes masterfully broke its promise of security. There was a heavy thud, and the door was open.

A few moments passed before Holmes swore, the safe slamming shut in his frustration.

"Doctor," the suppression in his voice seemed impossibly strained. "I suggest you leave. I was mistaken to bring you here tonight, you've accomplished _nothing_ but ruin an entire month's worth of effort." His back was turned away from me as I lifted myself off the ground.

"You would have killed her?" I asked, my head swarming when I stood up too fast. I could see his jaw clenching though he refused to look at me. I pressed on. "You'd kill an innocent girl for a deed she's not responsible for? An innocent bystander! What reason could you possibly have-"

"Reason! For God's sake, I am not Frankenstein's creation!" In another sudden burst of anger, Holmes whirled around to faced me, the calm facade shattered by his straining voice. "I do not seek love and acceptance; I don't care to make peace with mankind nor do I give a damn about what you or anyone else thinks! You've no idea, Doctor, the things that have pushed me to this! I am a product of mankind's own ability to grasp what is so evidently out of their reach!"

He was pacing round the room then, with his arms violently animating his speech.

"I ask myself every day how all these simple creatures can possibly claw their way to the top of London, _my_ London, yet at the same time be so _oblivious_ to the trivial matters which threaten them! My God, they are not even capable of stopping me- one man, one single man! Can I honestly be the only one with a brain enough to see through the screen which blinds them to true life?"

His mood swung into one of false mirth, a shaking hand clapping to his forehead as he laughed.

"You ask me for the reason of why I do the things I do? Ha, well, what reason is there _against_ it? Who is worth saving in this world? There is none. Not a _single_ one. I was... disgusted, Doctor, the way these fools bumbled round completely unchallenged and allowed to prosper with no idle threat. I eventually came to the conclusion that if I wished to see a change in this, _I_ must become the threat which quelled their numbers and instilled in them a real fear of danger; a necessitly to reevaluate. And it worked! Oh, how it worked. I was the one holding the reins; if they grew too settled, all I had to so was... _quip_! Ahh, then look at them run! I have established myself as the ultimate looming figure over this great cesspool of a city, the strings, the politicians, all at my finger tips. Indifference and proficiency has carried me far, and by sticking to those traits, I rightly earned the reputation I so sought after.

"And then... and then you showed up. I don't know what spell you have over me but for whatever reason I find it impossible to harm you. From the first time we saw each other in the cab, something... I don't know, something reached out and told me that it'd be in my best interest to keep you alive. But look where that's brought me as I now find myself in failure. I have failed to maintain my goal after all."

No amount logical reason or mental notation could have prepared me for this speech. I could tell that Holmes was still furious, and that it was taking every ounce of will power not to strike out, but the underlying emotion embedded in his words stabbed at my weak confidence. I was dangerously close to apologizing for my actions, but I didn't because there was honestly nothing I regretted this night.

"I'm sorry, for ruining the reputation you worked so hard to create for yourself, but I can't help if you're unwilling to do away with the cumbersome pest I've become."

"This is a reoccurring event between us, Doctor," he sighed despondently. "in which you seem to say the exact words I am thinking. Maybe it was fate which brought us together only to learn distain at the others actions. Well, my gentle lab rat, I think it best if you go on without me. I need not specify where I expect to find you... I trust you know your way back?"

I nodded, and turned to leave. Deep down I was hoping he'd say something to call me back, perhaps an apology or even a plastered smile, but there was no such thing to hint at what I could expect in the near future.

I walked along the cold streets intending to turn in at the my appointed destination, but instead found myself passing the bookstore and continuing forward. I breathed in the crisp night air and found the contrasting winds refreshing to my agitated state. All of London came and went as I took one step after the other. I had no idea where I was heading until my feet brought me to a familiar place.

They were so much darker in my youth, I remember, looking down at the stones which carried my family name. My father, mother, and brother lay in eternal slumber next to one another while their last remaining son stood looking down upon them. This in of itself wasn't too particular, except that that son also lay, accordingly, next to his brother. My _own_ marker, bearing the exact day to which I was born into this world and the day of my leaving it. There were no flowers upon my remembrance, but then again, who was there to leave them for me? I've lived such an isolated life with my family far distributed, old friendships and connections severed the moment we parted ways, that the instant I died back in Afghanistan, my entire existence ceased to be. We were of no particular importance as my parent's acquaintances slept likewise in their own graves while neither my brother nor I had ever taken up a wife to grieve our absence. A lover, perhaps, but that was all so long ago, back in the time when nothing we did mattered.

So there I was rightfully found; a man who was once a boy, went to his lessons everyday, played in the garden with his brother while putting off the instrument he knew he'd never master; life lived as one should until the trumpets of war called his name, ultimately leaving him a good soldier who died serving his Queen.

It all seemed like a joke to me seeing my own name carved on the stone. Evidently, the inescapable grasp of death and all the dirt which lay over my remains wasn't enough to keep me from standing here now, more lost than ever.

I closed my eyes and turned away from the happy dead. The hour was past midnight and I was sure to be expected back in my cage, but the night was just too beautiful. I sat on a bench overlooking the hills of markers and simply enjoyed the rolling breeze.

I had little expected that within the next few hours, Sherlock Holmes and I would share one of those rare moments in life in which everything muddled was made clear.

* * *

I had returned to the bookstore after a half-hour more of reverie, though I didn't go to my room. Instead, I found my interest pulled towards the ultimate comfort which a kitchen will always supply, despite the deplorable condition and lack of food. I seated myself in one of the old chairs, running my finger along the woodgrain and waited. I don't know how long I sat there before Holmes wordlessly entered the small room and sat himself across from me. I looked at him, daring his hair-trigger temper to flare.

It did not.

He remained silent for a long while before finally averting his gaze to meet mine.

"Did you enjoy the park?"

I knew he'd followed me. "I find better company in the blissful quiet and calm of the cemetery."

"As you should."

"Holmes, if you're going to kill me, will you just do it? This is becoming unbearable."

"I'd like to ask you why." The look in his eyes told me he wasn't talking about the suspense.

I sniffed, distracting myself with a loose splinter. "You may have a misanthropic view on life, but I don't. To have my ideals and morals molested in the fashion you forced tonight is a complete deprivation on my part; who, having experienced what I had, would not go mad?"

"I am sitting here contemplating your worth," said he, ignoring my reply. "You're a stubborn man and I can see that you're not going to accept the situation as it is, and yet I can't think of what would make you more complacent."

"Nothing. I can't help but holding onto all that I have left."

He regarded me with lax interest, his eyes dull and listless. "If I were to release you tonight, Doctor, where would you go?"

"Is there the slightest glimmer of hope in this answer meaning anything? To me?"

"I'm speaking of washing my hands of you. You'd walk out this door, I'd watch you go, and that'd be the end of things. You wouldn't have to worry yourself about my interference."

I looked at him disbelievingly. He only laughed.

"Why would you consider it? You're a wanted criminal agent; I could tell everyone how to find you."

"Not likely. I could make myself disappear."

"Holmes,"

"And yet you breath my name with utmost familiarity. You further confirm my theories that you've amassed a good amount of knowledge concerning myself. An undercover agent, perhaps?"

I shrugged. "If you were to release me," said I, returning to his initial question. "I think I'd like to try life anew."

"At the cemetery?" He asked persistently.

I fixed him with a scrutinizing glare. "Just because I found some amount of solace amongst the deceased doesn't mean-"

"I've read your records," I felt my chest deflate. "By doing so, I've cleverly deduced that you, being a dead soldier, _would_ in fact find solace amongst your fellow dead. Am I correct in assuming so?"

I could say nothing.

"You are John Watson of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, you have a striking resemblance to the man whose photograph I've seen, and yet you can't possibly be He sitting across from me right this instant for I've also seen the autopsy reports. Doctor John Watson of the Medical Department was out in the field the day he got shot. A model soldier such as himself could hardly be accused of such a stupid mistake, and yet it was a bullet in the back which took him down. How did he allow this when he knew that his life was important not only to himself, but to those which relied on him? From what I've read, the good doctor was caught unawares while trying to pull up a fallen soldier. He managed to push the man aside but was then struck down. His body was recovered, his medals duly appointed, and then buried in his family's plot as requested by his will. Now, can you tell me how it is you've defied death and come to plagued _my_ life instead? No? Well, I admit that my surmises are weak and even I don't fully believe them, though I'll run them by regardless.

"The first option; you are a government agent whose death has been faked in order for you to carry out covert missions- my current grace in the public's eye is enough to deploy such an agent, so why not you? Then again, I distinctly remember you reveling to me your name and profession. A properly trained agent would never do so much, especially with so little provocation on my part.

"A second surmise is that you've taken the identity of this soldier for _criminal_ intent. Upon the failing of a commission which lead to capture, you got desperate and pleaded association with me in hopes to instill some sort of trepidation over the police. Oh, but if that were so, then why the moral dilemma of tonight's incident?

"The third possibility is that I am completely mistaken about your relations to the good soldier, as the name John Watson is a common one, but I'm confident in my conjecture upon the matter. And judging by your speechless manner, I assume you, too, are convinced?"

I exhaled an empty breath. "Those... those surmises are all wrong."

"Oh? Then explain it to me. How am I talking to a dead man?"

I decided on another turn of wit. "You've eliminated all logical possibilities... what, then, remains?"

Here his eyes darkened while his entire form tensed. "The _impossible_ remains, Doctor, and yet I refuse to accept it as truth."

"Sadly, that is the only answer I can offer."

His head sunk in to his hands, his fingers gently massaging his temples until he ran them down his cheek. "Then all I can say is that you are both here _and_ in that grave. That impossibility made probable, even likely, by the fact that I can place you no where else. You are not dead because you've already been killed, and yet... here we are."

I pursed my lips together in thought. Holmes would think me crazy if I explained what had really happened; that through a minor binge I was somehow able to cross universes and land in a London that was not my own. The notion was ridiculous, but it was the truth.

"I live in London," I started. "It is my home, my practice, it is my life and my hell. I've come to respect it despite its constant trickery, though I find myself duped by its cruelest jest yet. London is my city, and yet this city this is not my London."

Holmes stared across from me with an unreadable expression. He smirked, standing up from his chair, and moving beyond my vision.

"I understand your implications, Doctor. Now tell me why should I believe them."

"In all honestly, you shouldn't. I'm still not convinced myself!" I laughed.

Holmes smiled along with my cloaked uncertainty.

"Do you doubt my sanity, Holmes?"

"No more than I do my own, for I dare say I believe you."

"You... you what?"

"Please, Doctor. A strange man whom I've never met before comes into my life, ruins an operation I've had in development in over a month, he knows no fear in my face and is as equally adjective to saying too much in my presence. Yes, yes, my good sir, I knew you were concealing something, I just never thought it'd be so... enigmatic!"

"It's frightful how easily you're accepting this..."

"I haven't. Not really, anyway. However, it _is_ a theory, and since I am in want for a better one than what I've cooked up, I am willing to play along to see there it takes me."

"I hardly know where to begin,"

"Why not start from the beginning?" he whispered from somewhere behind me.

"I suppose it started at the bar. I had recently gotten in rows with a friend of mine, and not knowing how to deal with the frustration, went out and emptied my pockets with cheap beer."

"Why were you fighting?"

"Because that's what happens between friends. Something happens, one of them-"

"Save your philosophy, Doctor. Why the rows? What could this friend have done to drive off a man like you?"

"It wasn't entirely his fault, Holmes. The anger was mutual though I can't say it was derived from the other... mostly, we were just there for each other to vent out common anger."

"I see. So you went off and binged while he did what?"

"I haven't seen him since my leaving, but normally in cases of extreme stress he'd turn to the cocaine bottle." I paused after saying this and gave Holmes a sidelong glance. He screwed his face and frowned but remained silent. I went on to tell him everything about my waking up in London and how each face I _met_ was different from the person I _knew_. Upon mentioning Mycroft I had expected to see some sigh of recognition, but Holmes only nodded and bade I continue. I related my meeting with Lestrade while simultaneously explaining to Holmes who he was and what he meant to me in my London. Again, Holmes remained unaffected by this introduction and so I laid out my queer interview with Hopkins and my inevitable sentence.

"Tell me again why the inspector struck you?"

"Because I told him I knew you." And also that we were intimate friends and companions.

"So you do know me? My other self?" His voice betrayed the curiosity while he kept himself out of view.

"I knew you well, but then, so did a lot of people."

"Ahh, my legacy proceeds me, then."

"Your name is famous and widely known, though for reasons that differ from what you're used to."

"How so, Doctor?"

I turned to face him, trying catch his expression, but it remained hidden. "You were the worlds one and only private consulting detective, and I was your biographer."

"A detective?" His voice was incredibly soft and subdued; I found myself growing nervous in my interrogation chair but the swell of pride upon discussing Holmes' virtues lightened my moods.

"Yes, you even put Scotland Yard to _shame_ with your brilliant deductions! Clients would come from all round the continent, even remote parts of the world, just to hear your say in their trifling matters. As a man of truly inquisitive nature, your methods were unheard of and yet so completely effective and unique that none could reproduce them. The small details others cast aside as unimportant would speak volumes to you and you only, often giving you the lead which remained so elusive to all other's efforts. Illustrious people would knock on your door; from the finest Lady to the lowliest humble laborer. And the singular detail is that if the case presented no point of interest, you would not take it. Why, I've seen you turn away royalty who've offered riches beyond anything I've ever seen in favor of a more stimulating problem presented by a baker."

"So London was all the sweeter for my efforts?"

"For that and so much more, my dear Holmes! With your influence and reputation, people could rest easier at night knowing that the atrocities afflicted upon them by others were not so irreversible as they had previously thought. If a father was murdered with the police saying that there was nothing more to be done, they'd turn to you and you would, in most cases, bring to rest their woes."

"But I couldn't always help. Some cases simply cannot be solved."

"This is true... but the ones you did solve were extraordinarily important to the one seeking solace. Even if it was a single person, one insignificant matter to London's greater interest, you would at least go to sleep that night knowing you changed the life for someone." I smiled warmly to myself now, thinking upon my good friend and all he's done. I turned up my face and smiled. "You were a good man, Holmes. When the criminal was in fact the one wronged by society, you would not be afraid to sympathize with them. The law is not always just, nor are those seeking to enforce it. But you- you were above that. Not held down my imposed morals, you looked with clear eyes capable of seeing beyond what was at the mere surface. Your name became a beacon of hope, in some ways. Instead of instilling the fear, you alleviated it."

He paused in thought. "You say, _royalty_ sought me out?"

"Indeed, they did."

"And families?"

"Families of all sizes; from a crowded room of similarly featured faces to a single mother and her child."

"I was even able to help people, ones wrongfully scorned by the law?"

"On quite a few occasions."

"You make it seem as though I've been able to forgive society, Doctor. From that small narrative of yours, why, I even appeared to have thrived with them."

"Well surely, Holmes, you can perceive my views? Human kind isn't so cruel, nor are they as monotonous as you make them out to be. We are your companions, your friends, and your sympathizers. By taking such a hateful view of mankind, you've alienated yourself to the point of vandalistic uncertainty. But in my London it wasn't like that; you were one of everybody else. Together, we were children beneath the Queen's rule."

I could feel him standing close behind my chair though he remained in thoughtful silence. I considered forgoing further entreaties about his accomplishments as a harbinger of justice, but was unable to do so. His hands closed round the back of my chair and, leaning over my shoulder, asked, "Was I happy?"

I had not been expecting this from him, and surprisingly, I found that I could not answer. Was Sherlock Holmes happy? Did he derive joy from his status and pursuits? Well he undoubtedly felt satisfaction upon the completion of a case, he laughed with me at silly little jests, and he honestly loved the music of fine artist, but... was he happy? or was he simply _stimulated_? Surely a man whose life was without repugnance and disdain wouldn't turn to artificial stimulants simply to _endure_ life! But that is just what Holmes would do- he'd win a game where he was the only player and then be forced into a state of existence which wasn't even worthy of his attention because his mind was already taken far away by the grips of cocaine. I wanted to answer that of course he was happy, of course life was better than it is now, but I could not say as much because... because I knew that it wasn't true. I, the man's friend and partner, did not know the answer to this simplest of questions.

My chin sunk heavily upon my breast as I answered the only truth I could offer. "You were my best friend."

His fingers tightened over the backrest as I heard a sharp intake of breath. The air surrounding us seemed to thicken and once again to a near palpable level. I wanted to leave and be by myself, but the warmth I felt over my back reminded me of my imprisonment. My mind and emotions were being strewn and twisted so much that they've grown brittle over these past few days since my reacquaintance with Holmes, and yet I wasn't alone as it was obvious that he was as equally stressed as I; his life just as disturbed as mine.

I slouched further in my seat, allowing a crestfallen sigh to escape my lips. It was a few moments before I was aware of Holmes' forehead coming to rest over my crown. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry for not killing you from the beginning."

* * *

**I'm gonna hafta remember to feed Watson at some point.**


	7. Chapter 7

"A small part of me wishes you did."

He exhaled a slow breath and melted away from me. I sunk my head upon the table and closed my eyes, exhaustion quickly ebbing at my conscience.

"Don't say that," I heard him whisper.

"You proposed it yourself," I reply. "And I won't lie to you, no matter who you are."

He sniffed, and said nothing.

I was very near sleep when he asked his final question for the night. "Have you always been able to do this to me?"

"Do what?"

"Guilt."

* * *

I was back in my bed come morning, a plate of bread and cheese set out beside me. I looked at it for a long moment not really feeling hungry but bundled it up and stuffed it in my pocket nonetheless. My eyes felt heavy and burned from the restless sleep I endured; my overall being feeling haggard.

"I see you didn't find my offerings of breakfast suitable to your likings," Holmes was standing at the door, his back turned to me with a folded piece of foolscap in hand.

I shrugged off his remark. "I'm not too hungry."

"Are you still going through with your plans of starvation?" I ignored this. Instead, I stepped towards him until there was a good six feet between us. I knew I was risking probably more than I could afford, but I had hopes of last night's conversation changing him more than what he was now showing.

"Is your offer still open?"

He turned to me. "Which one? The one where I let you walk out that door, or the one where you become my new accomplice?"

"I..."

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't be new to _you_, but… you know my meaning."

"Holmes, I may or may not have conveyed this to you last night," his eyes sharpened as I said this. "but it is against my nature to turn on someone with whom I've established so much. You are not _him_, to say the least, but you are still the same man. I won't, I _can't_ do anything if I know it'll bring you down as well. I don't know where I stand anymore, everything I knew having been butchered to the point of being unrecognizable. I need your help, Holmes. I need it more than food at this point but I won't get it unless you are equally willing to go out on a limb for me. If I must get my hands dirty to obtain this, then I will. But I must ask if you truly believe what I told you last night? Will you help a man at who is at his wit's end?"

He looked thoughtful at my appeals, and as was normal, he replied with total indifference to my concern. "I see no reason why I should."

"You're right in saying so," I agreed heavily. "But I just thought I'd state my case before making any decisions concerning you. It's not terribly surprising to hear your answer."

"My dear Doctor, I haven't answered you yet. I am only curious as to why you think I'd be willing, or even _able_ to do anything in the first place? What would my other self do?"

"You'd deny my claims of crossed universes and try to find out what disorder I was suffering. Not that I'm not half convinced of doing that myself."

He nodded and walked out the door. Calling over his shoulder, he said, "We shall see, Doctor, though I still don't understand. You came all the way here, endured a lifetime of trouble only to come to a man who may or may not refuse you. It is a risk, a valuable trait which I would hate to see wasted. Answer my question and then I'll answer yours."

"Ask away."

"Will you forget everything?"

"Everything? What do you-

"Each and every morel you've been duped into upholding by what people like to call society. Will you accept my hand and follow me into damnation with only the _slightest_ _hopes_ of your own possibly impossible desires coming to fruition?"

I looked down at the hand extended toward me. I hesitated for only a moment before grasping it in my own.

"Yes."

"Then I will help you, Doctor. Now then, we've an appointment to see to."

* * *

The moment we stepped through the door of that bar, I was assaulted with the scent of strong alcohol and a mixed cloud of tobacco smoke. Above the din of voices I could clearly hear the clink of glasses and the laughter from florid faces. I drew my brows at the establishment, expecting Holmes to meet his appointment amongst better company. But what did I know? Perhaps this was all a rouse; actors hired to conceal the criminals who gathered to contrive their evil schemes. Did they do that? Was there a community of criminals with Holmes at the lead? I wondered if they even liked him. Often enough the most proficient member isn't necessarily the most loved, which probably meant Holmes wasn't. If what they said at the Yard was correct, he was a loner. Either way, no one turned a blind eye to our entrance, too enthralled with their drinks to care.

Holmes lead me to a private booth at the back where we both took our seats and placed our orders. I could tell by the look on his face that Holmes wasn't too keen on this interview; the corners of his mouth turned down while his forehead creased in concentration. I myself was feeling apprehensive and yet thrilled to be here. I hardly noticed when our drinks arrived as I was to busy observing and sorting the people surrounding us.

"Looking for faces, Doctor?" he asked over the rim of his glass.

"It's fascinating, really. Can you tell me about this place? These people? Do you frequent this particular bar often?"

Holmes chuckled. "I'm afraid the people here are no more interesting than those you find on the Strand. Your implications are, of course, not ill founded though I'm going to have to say that no, this isn't common grounds for men of my field. This happens to be a small enough place where the alcohol speaks louder than words can be heard."

I took one sip of my whiskey and wiped my mouth over my sleeve. My mind was still racing in wonderment at this establishment which still held immense interest despite Holmes' indifference of the place. I was comfortable with our silence, but Holmes seemed eager to discuss.

"Did you know me as an avid drinker?"

"What? No, not particularly. A glass of brandy to still the nerves, wine with dinner, but nothing excessive."

"Well that's a good thing to hear," he was idly rocking the bottom of his half-emptied glass over the table. "You did mention cocaine, though, did you not?"

"It remains a constant companion in your darker hours." I sighed.

He spat at this. "If you were to say I favored drink a bit more than I do here, I would have believed you. But narcotics? That's absurd."

"You started with morphine,"

"Morphine! I do hope you at least _tried_ to impede these vices of mine?"

"I did what I could; spoke to you both as your doctor and as your friend."

"And?"

"Alas! You listened to cocaine more ardently than you did to me."

He nodded and downed the rest of his drink. "When you get back, Doctor, do make an effort to rid me of those deplorable habits."

I looked at him with a mixed feeling of surprise and joy. I smiled, looking down at my glass. "I never gave up."

Now was his turn grace me with a confused look. "And how long have we known each other?"

"Six years," said I.

"Six years? Well, that is a while. Had we any other companions? Are any of the faces in this room familiar in that aspect?"

I looked round aimlessly. "I'm sorry to say that the company we share now isn't much different than how it was in my London. However," I now fixed him in my gaze. "You had a brother."

"Oh?" It was a weak, introspective reply, as though this was profound information to him. His eyes strayed from mine and focused on his fingernails. "Tell me about him."

"His name was Mycroft. I don't know too much about the man, actually; you two were the least communicative brother's I've ever had the fortune to meet. But you've admitted by your own lips that his mind was keener than yours, though through a lack of motivation, Mycroft lived a sedentary life instead of pursuing the career you chose."

"What did this brother of mine do?"

"I'm not entirely sure; his position in whatever he does is too confidential for my ears. I've been told that it was governmental work."

Holmes sniffed, refusing my eye contact. "If you don't know, and I didn't tell you, it leads me to believe this _brother_ of mine probably lives a double life. Perhaps he was an alcoholic, an invert, or maybe _he_ was the one pulling the strings of an unspoken family business."

"I hardly think that that's the case!" I said in the honorable Mycroft's defense. "The man has two destinations in his life, neither of which are criminal!"

"That may be, but you can't prove it, can you? No need to fret, Watson, it hardly effects us now, does it? I didn't think so."

I stuttered for a moment, trying to defend the dignity of my friend's family. "I've met the man myself, and I knew _you_ quite intimately. Had your brother been an underground conductor of mischief, I think you would have had the confidence to discuss that particular detail with me. Anyhow, where is he now? Do you, here, have a brother?"

Holmes finally met my eyes yet his face was unreadable. It looked as though he were about to rebuke my question when I saw a small flicker of dread cross his features. He clamped his lips shut momentarily before hastily replying, "I don't have a brother. Perhaps if I did, I wouldn't be like this."

I was about to entreat him upon the matter when I was suddenly made aware of a new presence behind me. A gloved hand clamped down on my shoulder as our new guest put his lips to my ear. "You bar bodies are going to have to stop hampering this gentleman. He's not going to kill your wife for you." The voice was smooth and pleasant with a subtle scent of tobacco on his breath. I turned round to face this man and was met by a pair warm brown eyes. He smiled at me before turning to Holmes. "Would you like me to dismiss this hindrance?"

Holmes narrowed his gaze at the man, waving off his unwanted chivalry. "Let him be, D'Arville. This is Dr. Watson and he's with me."

The man named D'Arville looked between the two of us with a broad smile. "Is he now? Since when do you need a page boy?"

My companion's eye twitched as he scrutinized this cumbersome man. "I don't _need_ anybody. However, it might interest you to know that this good friend of mine is the one responsible for last night's blunder."

D'Arville barked a laugh and slapped my shoulder. "Did you really, Dr. Watson? Hah! Finally, a man capable of foiling the Great Sherlock Holmes' plans!" Still giddy with excitement, he grabbed a chair and sat himself at our table. Turning to face me, he said, "I came here to berate dear Mr. Holmes on his inability to meet his half of the bargain, but you make things interesting. Tell me how you did it."

I looked to Holmes, not wanting to speak against him. He shook his head at me and restored his gaze to our new companion. "No need to answer that, dear fellow. Onto business now, D'Arville. I'd like to be rid of you as soon as humanly possible."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Holmes." his voice took up a strictly business tone as I soon became invisible to his attentions. "I offered you my help on that little heist of yours a few moths back. You reaped your wealth, had your little spread in the paper, while I lost five of my men. _Five men_, Holmes."

The latter let out a bored sigh and responded flatly. "And that is the precise reason why I work alone. If you don't bother yourself employing constant variables in your plans, then there's no collateral. When I am in need of assistance I hire out; if they're unable to keep up, then of what loss is it to me? I don't have to worry about keeping everyone alive, dividing them up on a job based on who I like and who I wish to see survive. Really now, we don't need an army to take on a few petty risks."

D'Arville removed his hat revealing a head of thick dark locks through which we ran his fingers. "Unfortunately we can't all work like you, Holmes, but I would think you capable of seeing where I'm coming from. Either way, it doesn't change the fact that you came up short on your end of the bargain." He shot me a look before continuing. "Do you know what I was supposed to have this morning?" Holmes shook his head, his eyes heavily lidded with his hand covering his mouth. D'Arville continued. "I was supposed to have the deeds in Pelham's safe. I was supposed to have his estate, the remonstrants of his pathetic pleads, or else the severed hands of his new bride. Do you know how I was to find these things?" Holmes' head was bowed and I could have sworn he was at the brink of tears. D'Arville sensed this, placed his hands before my companion's in means of intimidation, and leaned forward. In a heavily laced voice, he said, "I expected you to hand them to me personally this morning. You've _failed_ me, Holmes."

There was a dead silence between the two men and I thought perhaps D'Arville would lash out. But then I noticed Holmes' shoulders starting to shake before he threw back his head and broke out in a fit of laughter! I couldn't help but feel delighted at this as D'Arville jerked away from the hysterical man with the most remarkable look upon his face. Holmes' laugher finally began to subside as he ran a hand over one of his eyes.

"Dear me! You'll have to forgive my outburst, but... by George, I don't think I've ever had a more difficult time keeping my face!" He had another bout of fits before prodding forward. "I think- I think it extremely funny, my poor D'Arville, that you actually _think_ you have a hand over me! Honestly, man, do you think you could inspire even the smallest bit of trepidation in me? Your threats mean nothing more to me than that of a traveling gypsy. Oh! as dense as you are, you really do humor me so. Come, my dear Doctor, we ought to have _something_ better to spend our time on!"

I laughed at the flush of red over D'Arville's cheeks as he burned a murderous stare at Holmes. His lips were tremulous as he stood abruptly to protest and reassert himself, but it was too late. Holmes rose from his seat and motioned me to follow. I turned to D'Arville and, caught up in the moment, boldly stated, "Lay on, MacDuff." We left the sputtering man behind us and exited the establishment.

* * *

"Who was that delightful gentleman, Holmes?" I asked as we made our way through the busy street.

"A pest with an over inflated ego. His name is Geoffrey D'Arville, a silly little man who thinks crime is a simple job opportunity. Really, he has not even scratched the surface of what he's getting himself into."

"He seems to think he has you in his grasp."

Holmes shrugged. "I may be up top, Doctor, but I am not without my debts. But to D'Arville- peh! I could hardly bother myself with the likes of him. But I imagine we won't be seeing the last of that man; he's the type to think the world marvels at his intellect when in reality it just sighs."

"Why not simply rid yourself of the man?"

"I suppose because I'm hoping to stoke the flames of his capability. I shall continue to build him up and then I will proceed to destroy him."

I looked at Holmes incredulously. "You can't be serious?"

He smiled at my question. "Of course I'm not! If I allowed this man to boil in his own hatred, I'm afraid I'd create nothing more than a ruthless killer; much like how you assumed I was on our first meeting. Believe it or not, I don't smile on crime. I don't want to help others _cause_ torment for, as I told you last night, it is through my own personal means that I thrive in the life I've created for myself. However, I have no inclination to stop them unless they should get in my way." There was a thoughtful pause, in which he suddenly decided to pick up our talk from before. "For what reason did I pursue crime in the first place?"

"Boredom, I suppose."

"Huh. But what of you?"

I laughed. "Holmes, I know you don't care about me and my life."

"Your assumptions have been sporadic and yet surprisingly accurate since my knowing you, however, I find this last one of yours extremely shallow."

"I was a general practitioner," I said. "I documented your cases and helped in making you famous. But on my own... well, I'm fairly unremarkable."

"You must have been something if I called you my friend."

"I suppose. Loyal, dependable, predictable..."

"You're making it difficult for me to discern the root of our apparent friendship."

I groaned at this. My friendship with Holmes was one of the few things in life I didn't have to think about; I didn't have to question it, ask myself why it existed nor how I maintained it. And here I was being asked to deconstruct it and find all the _factual_ and _logical_ points that made it up. I stopped walking and looked after Holmes. He came to a halt when I stopped following.

"Holmes," my chest felt tight for some odd reason. "You and I were friends, and I'm hoping that I can make it so now, but you're asking too much into it. I don't _know_ why you tolerated my slower mind, but... oh, why must you question it?"

He rolled his eyes at my statement, yet his features softened to my discourse. "I am asking because I don't see how it's possible. If I am practically the same person now as I am there, then I cannot see why anyone, let alone someone like you, would ever tolerate _me_. Besides, when I meet a man who says he was my best friend, of course I'm going to be intrigued. I apologize if it comes off as crass, but I am merely curious."

I shook my head and trudged forward. "I feel like I haven't eaten in weeks. Might we please find some food?"

"Of course, _mon ami_."


	8. Chapter 8

"Mrs. Adler, I'm going to have to ask you to please leave me be. I don't like you, I'm not impressed by you, and for Heaven's sake, you've never been able to impress anything upon me, so please stop lying to this man."

Holmes and I had stopped by a club after lunch to meet with another of his colorful friends when this woman, an actress from America apparently, intercepted us.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, you're such the gentleman. But you know as well as I do that strangers aren't allowed behind those doors," she smiled as she ran her eyes up and down my person, _approving_ of my appearance. "Though you are a handsome one, I will admit." She turned her attention back to Holmes with glittering eyes. "But he doesn't appreciate beauty like we do, apparently."

Holmes scoffed at this remark. The man regarded her as if she were the most repulsive thing in the world, and yet I could not surmise the reasons for these reactions. "Look here, _Irene_. I have urgent things to discuss and you're only getting in my way. The doctor won't betray what he sees or hears, you may trust me in this."

Ignoring my companion completely, Irene Adler gave her attentions back my way. "Oh, Doctor!" she gasped in mock surprise. "You've stolen his heart from me! How could you do such a rotten thing to a lady!"

I choked. "What! Please, my lady," I said nervously. "I can assure you that there is nothing-"

"Yes, Mrs. Adler, my lover and I are here together, and as such, we'd like an appointment with the owner of this establishment. So will you please-"

The young woman caught both Holmes and myself completely off guard as she drew a slim dagger from the ruffles of her dress and quickly had the tip pointed against my jaw. I was about to shove her away when she pressed herself fully against me, one arm wrapped round my lower back while simultaneously pinning my arm, and had teasingly run the blade along my chin. Holmes moved to stop her, but she managed to keep him at bay. "If you're going to throw yourself in with our lot, Mr. Watson," she purred against my ear. "Then I suggest you keep dear Holmes' head to the ground rather than the sky. Don't be a foolish man," she flashed her brilliant teeth toward me again before regaining her seat. "Holmes, you know and I know that he doesn't care a smidgen who comes knocking at his door. Your reputation means nothing to him. Besides," she chuckled. "Unlike you, he has men at his complete and utter disposal should any _problems_ arise."

Holmes rolled his eyes and I couldn't believe how composed he was. Next to me, who was flustered and slightly embarrassed, he held the same unreadable face he always wore in the company of others. He leaned down till he was eye level with the lady, and playfully warned, "I've been made aware of a special gift, thanks to my dear doctor." he paused for effect. "Don't make me deduce your life story."

She stood up, trailing her hand over my mine as she did so, and grinned. "I'm curious as to how I look in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes," she said seedily. "But very well, maybe your friend will be able to charm him like he charmed you." Irene Adler gracefully pushed her way through the crowd and disappeared behind the dark wooden doors.

I was looking after her, but Holmes remained nonplused. He grasped my arm and I couldn't help but notice the disturbed look upon his face. "Don't toil with the viper unless you wish for an early death, Watson. She's an evil succubus if ever there was one."

I was still phased by her unusual behavior. "What do you mean? Holmes, do you know this woman on an intimate level?"

He genuinely looked terrified at this suggestion. "Are you _mad_, Doctor? I've an aversion to her type; their beauty means nothing more to me than the color of a race horse! No, no! Don't chastise me about my choice of vocabulary. That woman is a life-sucking demon and nothing moves against that notion."

"But, Holmes... she's beautiful! She's-"

"_Married_? Yes, I know. Why her husband tolerates such deplorable behavior is beyond me. Come, lover, the beast beckons and the king will see us."

I consented and followed close behind Holmes, shutting the doors behind us as we followed Adler's path. I turned round and surveyed this new room; it was a small, dimly lit hallway with expensive paintings adorning either side of the walls. A thick red carpet lined the floors with an intricate trim running the length as well as up the decorative panels. We stepped round a small corner and past an elderly gentleman quietly sitting in a chair. So enraptured was he in polishing a small candleholder that he hardly lifted an eye as Holmes plucked a loose string from his shoulder. We walked on, leaving him to his chore. Doors could be heard closing from upstairs yet there was only one at the end of the hallway which I supposed was our destination as soon as we were given permission. Holmes had a tired look upon his face and was only too happy to break the serenity of our wait.

"Was Mrs. Adler as insufferable in your world as she is in mine?"

I scratched my head. "To be perfectly honest, I've never seen the woman before. Someone with her personality certainly would have stood out in my mind's eye."

"How lucky you are, Dr. Watson."

"I suppose so. Anyway, who are we to see now?"

"Well, I happen to know that D'Arville is a mere extension and not a real stand-alone-threat. He likes to think that he's running by his own steam, so naturally I'm to assume he's working for someone else. I'm led to believe that this is our man."

"But why are we here if only to rid ourselves of D'Arville? As I've suggested before, we could easily off him ourselves."

"Ourselves?" Holmes smiled affectionately at this. "It's so strange that you immediately associate yourself with me, Doctor!"

I shrugged with no comment.

"Yes, well, D'Arville is not the reason why we're here. In all factuality, the man wasn't wrong when he accused me of failure. However, I will not succumb and kiss his feet in hopes of _his_ forgiveness. No, I will report directly to the man he's working for. That way we can have an intelligent and constructive discussion about my, or I suppose _our_, position and how to go about making amends."

I suppose we were waiting for confirmation from Mrs. Adler as our time in the hallway began to stretch longer than I had hoped. In our waiting, I apologized once again for ruining Holmes' mission, though I couldn't help but feel that the words weren't wholly honest. Holmes knew, however, how drastic this all was to me, and for that, I was grateful. I noticed his mood round me lightened considerably since our first meeting and he didn't seem as reclusive. I even noticed the use of my name on occasion, as opposed to my title, though that may have just been an act in the presence of others. Either way, I felt confident that I was slowly regaining what may, however small and incomplete in total, but nonetheless I felt as though I was slowly regaining my friend.

Often during my stay here I wondered what my Holmes was doing. If time were indeed moving foreword accordingly with the time I spent here, than that'd mean I would have gone missing for a few days over a week. Would Holmes be worried? Would he set out to find me or was he simply awaiting my arrival home? He told me not to worry if he were to ever disappear for a few days on end, so it was possible that he would take my absence as an absence of leisure. Then again, I am such a man of habits that Holmes would have known if I had any plans which would keep me from home for so long; even if it was urgent, he knows that I would have sent him word of my whereabouts. I confess that I can't even imagine what Holmes was doing in my sudden absence, but my only wish was that he didn't think me dead. How morbidly humorous it would be for the man to think his friend dead, only to have said friend seemingly rise from the grave and greet him in his home!

And there I was again reminded of my full predicament and how endless it seemed to me. Holmes of new agreed to help me, but now that I thought about it, I really had no idea what he could do to reverse this. I didn't even know this was possible, let alone what may be the cause. With a deep sigh, I accepted that if it were to be so, things would right themselves in time; before anything too drastic should occur.

"You seem sad, Dr. Watson. What are you thinking about?"

I shrugged. "You would usually be able to deduce that on your own, Holmes."

"Indeed I could, but then I'd only be hearing my own thoughts confirmed instead of hearing what you _want_ to say. These things always take some time, some twisting limbs, so I imagine we won't be talking to anyone else any time soon."

"I'm thinking about you; what you're doing and how I'm going to get back to the rest of my life. Not to put such a high worth over my own head, but even the most indifferent yet solicitous man would endeavor the whereabouts of his flatmate gone missing for upwards of about a week. I only wonder how London's faring in my absence!" I laughed at my mockingly inflated pride.

Holmes only looked at me with that analytical gaze often used when presented with a clue. Perhaps that's what I've just provided. "We were flatmates as well?" he asked in some surprise.

"Oh, yes, I forgot to mention."

"Hum. And we were accomplices. Friends, even."

"On a most sincere level."

"Ah. But we were also, in a way, business partners?"

"Well, I suppose you could say that. I did have a practice, though that failed as I always seemed to prioritize cases. This was all born from the both of us suffering the worse of arrears, having to room together in order to split the rent. The friendship and profession were simply unforeseen miracles."

"Dear lord!" he exclaimed. "Did my faux implications actually hold some truth? Were we indeed lovers as well?"

I snapped back to face him. "Heavens, no!" I cried desperately. "Nothing like that!"

"Thank God! You nearly made me suffer a heart attack, Dr. Watson. For a moment I thought I owed even more to you!" He placed a hand over his heart to imply the averted cardiac arrest. But still, he was genuinely relieved, and for the second time that day, I found myself embarrassed and flustered.

And then- "I didn't quite catch that, Holmes, what do you mean you thought you'd owe me more?"

He turned a quizzical eye to me but didn't respond. Instead, he walked up to the closed door and knocked quietly. If I were to be so bold, I would have thought that I was building a guilty conscience for this supposedly heartless machine of a man. Perhaps he had a grander understanding than I would have thought fair of him. This certainly would be an odd feat as I've always known my friend as a man of cold reason with only the smallest glimpses of his inner heart. But here was an interesting difference; as the Holmes of now no longer needed to push away feelings which would distract the mind from clues, as he was no longer the hunter, the necessary ignorance of softer emotions was now quite inessential. This Holmes, this criminal, this murderer and this isolated soul, he knew no such bounds as those which the detective was forced to comply. It warmed me greatly to think that this theory was plausible, yet I still had to remind myself that he was, as I've stated, a murderer and a man who's rightfully _earned_ his infamous status. Only time would determine how strong my presupposition would prove. I've been so confused on how I should place my opinions with this twisted image of Sherlock Holmes, that I soon established a pledge to simply accept things as they were and work with what I'd be given.

"Holmes," I said quietly. He jimmied the unrelenting handle one last time before exhaling and partially sliding down the door. He turned slowly to me, his eyes murky and his form sagging.

"Yes, Doctor?"

And here, my inner hero made an appearance. "Holmes, have you ever reconsidered your position?"

He looked over his shoulder, leaning his head against the door momentarily before rolling it back to face me. He sniffed before shrugging his shoulders. "This isn't my normal position. Usually I like to stand up strait so I can impress upon my host an air of interest, though how deeply I feel said interest is another matter entirely."

I scoffed at his reply. "You know what I mean."

"I don't think I do; you've the advantage of knowing everything about me while I'm running solely on my surmises of you. _Had I been_your _friend_ and flatmate of six years like you know me to be, then perhaps I would understand. Or maybe I wouldn't. But the point is is that you don't know me. Not really, not anymore. So when you think that I should find something the same way you do, you really ought to ask yourself if that's a practical thought. Use your brain, Watson! If I were the same person you knew I wouldn't be standing here in this questionable establishment, and yet, here we both are. You must forgive me as I am prone to rambling, but it all comes back round to your question. You ask if I ever questioned my position. In other terms, have I ever at one point since your arrival, doubted my heinous crimes? I won't lie to you and say that I am unmoved- indeed, I have never felt more confused in all my life- but you must not think that this small ripple would be enough to alter my whole way of being." He stopped his narrative and looked directly at me. "Our friendship may have been sacred, Doctor, but it means nothing here and now. Not until I've betrayed my own points and morals on my _own_ behalf, which, I can assure you, would be nearly impossible."

"You're saying I must convince you," I state plainly.

"No, not at all. A friend would be a liability; the disadvantages greatly outweighing the benefits. You've wooed my before Doctor, but here in my world, it will prove superfluous. Accept my helping hand but don't expect my complete complacency."

Time took little wait in derailing my theory.

I meant to look at him with an offhand expression, but I found myself laughing despite the inappropriate time. "Holmes, you've no idea the striking resemblance you have to my dear friend! I'd even go so far as to say that I've heard this speech before. But you're right, I suppose. My friend and colleague is in a different London entirely; in all actuality, you're nothing more than a stranger with a familiar face!" And I suppose _mon ami_ was also simply a phrase.

He smiled. "Good! We seem to be on the same page. You mustn't guilt yourself over the affairs which may become evident in our near future, because the moment I wash my hands of you, it will mean nothing at all. By George, they nor myself will even exist to you any more! Isn't is fascinating? It's so convenient."

I smiled along with him, though my heart was quite bit heavier than his. Nonetheless, we spent only a few minutes more in that solitary hallway before Mrs. Adler reappeared.

To say she looked nervous would be an understatement. She concealed her inner trepidation well, but she could not hide the bead of sweat on her forehead nor the slight flush of her cheeks. Knowing that neither Holmes nor myself was convinced, she decided to ignore our amused faces and simply ushered us to the door.

"I hate talking to that man; you're lucky he's seeing you on such short notice!"

"And I sincerely thank you, Mrs. Adler!" Holmes smiled.

She was in no mood for jest, her flirty antics now a forgotten thing of the past.

"I swear to God, Holmes, one of these days they'll just stop caring and soon you'll cease to exist."

He laughed heartily at this. "Please! I'm a cold-blooded criminal with no regards whatsoever to the outside world of humankind; I am not a child's imaginary creation!"

She screwed her pretty lips in contempt and shoved us both through the door. There was, however, a final passing wisp of her voice in my ear. "Leave, silly man, before these doors close on your freedom forever."

And she was gone, heavy oak doors closing behind her.

Our man, the one stern enough to frighten Irene Adler and the one secure enough not to give a damn about Sherlock Holmes, turned out to be a very sharp looking fellow. He sat in an easy repose in his chair behind a beautiful walnut desk. He appeared to be in his early forties, give or take a few years, with raven black hair slicked back over his scalp. His features were consoled and his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark glasses. When he looked up at our presence, I saw not the slightest shimmer of emotion at his present company. Very cooly, he swept a thin hand towards two chairs set before him. Holmes removed his hat and accepted the seat cordially, I following suit behind him. When our host stood to great us, I couldn't help but notice his immense height.

"Sherlock Holmes, to what do I owe the honor?" his speech was not what I expected from this powerful appearance. It was slow and exasperated as if it was hardly worth the effort and yet it still held an intelligence which could not be denied.

Holmes sat up and accepted the hand, falling back into his professional tone once they parted. "I do believe you've heard from D'Arville, no doubt about what happened last night."

The man, whose name I had yet to pick up, nodded his head and alluded to an opened envelope. "I've just finished his report. I must say, Holmes, you surprised me."

"Yes, well, life is full of surprises. But that is in the past and we must now concern ourselves with the present and with the future. Since I will humbly spit in D'Arville's face, I thought I should come to you to hear directly what you'd like to see done. I apologize that this meeting was even necessary, but I do owe you for your previous help and I shall not rest easy till I've paid my debt."

"I would not rest so easily myself, if I were in your position. You're a powerful man, Mr. Holmes, and I don't wish to interfere with your plans. But yes, as a dealing of business, let us work something out." The man withdrew a cedar wood cigar box and offered one to the each of us. I respectfully declined, but Holmes took two and shoved one in my hand. Our host chuckled at our exchange yet didn't question it.

"So tell me, Holmes, why am I audience for your petty little problem?"

"I suppose because I'm just clever enough to know that you gave that little man this job which he, incapable of doing it, though I can't fathom why, has inquired my services yet finds himself unsatisfied. I'm only interested in helping you, as you've something to gain from this in some way."

The man leaned back in his chair phlegmatically. "And evidently, you couldn't pull it off either."

I saw Holmes' eye twitch, a surprised laugh escaping his lips. "Well, under the present circumstances..."

"Do stop barricading your faults, Holmes. You failed just as bad as poor D'Arville. Why deny it? It's very unlike you."

"Now see here!" he said rather heatedly. It was greatly amusing to see Holmes under speculation for once. "I am fully capable of handling this situation, however, a few unforeseen circumstances made themselves known. So pray, do not belittle-"

"An unforeseen circumstance such as a crippled man impeding your efforts? Really Holmes, you ought to have been able to knock this fine gentleman off in no time. Why did you hold back?"

I waited silently as Holmes glared at the man. "I owe this gentleman something, and once I'm clear of it, he will be gone," he said through his teeth. "Now please, my good sir, what will you have me do now?"

"In my perfectly honest opinion, I think you ought to take your failing reputation and stick it somewhere useful instead of in my space and in my time. As a business man of sorts, surely you know how cumbersome a tiny tick can be?"

I could not help myself when I asked who this man was and why he thought he could speak to Holmes so frankly. My companion shot a venomous glance my way, but I kept visual contact with the man whose eyes remained hidden.

Finally, he stood up. "I honestly don't care what you do, Holmes. I don't care that you've got yourself a dog to bite your molesters nor do I honestly care why you failed. Go home, do your own thing, whatever you wish. Now please remove yourselves from my company, I've things to look over."

* * *

"We run through a pattern, Watson." Holmes said to me once we were at home. "I try to treat you kindly and then you interfere, causing my to hate and regret you. That was not at all how I hoped to deal with this! I am thoroughly embarrassed and what have I got to show for it?"

"You're off the hook!" I supply.

"The hook! My god, you idiot, you don't even know what happened in there!" He removed a bottle of cheap alcohol and drained a good amount before putting it down. "Please tell me you've got an idea on how to get home? I feel now more than ever the dire need to be rid of you."

"Hell if I know how to get out of here!"

He put down the bottle with unnecessary force and started pacing. I've never felt more out of place than I did in that instance, and I soon began the entire cycle of doubt over again.

It was very possible, I thought, that Holmes was simply the wrong person; maybe I was associating myself, putting the two of us through this unnecessary stress only because I was comfortable with who he was _supposed_ to be. If I were to leave him, just to forget he was even here, maybe I'd have better luck. Should I seek out someone else? Someone more willing to help? The idea appealed more and more to me the farther I thought about it. The miniscule tie this man had to my friend really meant nothing anymore, so it was in vain that I had suffered these past few days, weighing the guilt and the thrill of becoming a criminal simply to please this man who I had no reason to please. Certainly, it would be much more productive to leave here and seek other means.

I looked round the room at these familiar yet alien possessions, none of which belonged to me. I could easily up and leave, Holmes losing nothing of value while I myself felt... well, I felt keen on the idea, to be perfectly honest. But how would I do it? Just walk out the door? Climb the window? Holmes was a man who needed very little sleep to function, but it was always I who was the lighter sleeper thanks to my days in the army. I held nothing in the way of possessions except for my journal, so leaving in the middle of the night did indeed seem plausible.

I knew it wouldn't be that easy.

I thought telling Holmes everything would soften his jeers, and for a while I it did... but no matter. I had all of London, surely one of its other citizens would pull me from this convoluted mess.

Feeling a bit better about my situation, I took a seat in the armchair farthest from him (and closest to the door) and settled in my place.

"Holmes."

He grunted in reply.

"Yes, well. I know my place now, in case you're wondering."

"Oh? And where is that, Doctor?"

"Not here." I said clearly. He didn't react much more than with a shrug. I continued. "I think I'll find more success elsewhere. I have no idea what to do, and clearly you don't care enough to bother, so I think I'd be better off on my own. Out there."

He took another swig, gently pressing his lips to his shirtsleeve. "What makes you think you'll find it _out there_?"

"Anywhere's better than here. All I find in this place is uncertainty and idleness."

"Whatever you think, wherever you hope to find it, I doubt your success."

"And why is that? I'm offering to leave you to your own devices, Holmes. You can go back to... whoever that was, and you'll be able to fix things. Why should I remain when I get nothing nor offer nothing?"

"You will remain here, Doctor," he said tiredly. "Because I already gave you my word."

"Then I release you from your promise."

I had hoped he'd accept this, but of course, it would never be that easy. "You misunderstand my meaning. I wasn't talking about my promise to help you, I was in fact referring to my first promise. The one, I believe, where I said that you where my prisoner and that under no circumstances would you be able to escape. That is what I meant, Watson."

"My dear Holmes,"

"Don't say things like that."

"Holmes, then- You thought about letting me go last night, I see no reason why you should change your mind now. If anything, I'd think you'd be happy! You've been exposed to how much of a hindrance I could be on your efforts, so I see no reason for you keep me here."

"You'll say something."

"You know I won't. I'm upholding a lie by thinking you'd want anything to do with me, so..." I paused. "So I'm going to stand up and walk out that door."

"No you aren't."

"I am. You called me your friend earlier today, but don't I understand why you did that. You've always been good at manipulating people."

"You're not walking out that door."

"Won't I?"

"I won't let you."

"Yes you will."

"Try my word, lover, and see how far you get."

* * *

**Gosh, if I could make this story one giant conversation over tea, I would. I'm such a dialogue whore.**

**Also, if you're gonna make me write Irene Adler, then I'm gonna make you read H/W! Haha! But if you're not into that sorta thing, then don't worry. I'm just having fun.**

**Again, any little details, lemme know!**


	9. Chapter 9

As it turned out, leaving Sherlock Holmes was a lot easier than I had originally thought. Of course a man of his eccentricities wouldn't simply let me walk out the door, rather, I was made to endure one final test; one last experiment played on this _little lab rat_. Holmes had asked me, not commanded, but _asked_ that if I were to leave, then I was to never seek him out again. My mind was already set on this new road of mine, and so there was never a doubt in my mind as to what I would do. However, he did accomplish his main goal, and that was to release me (of his own will, in a way) with his final words as well as mine hanging on my conscience. I think the man's true crime isn't his devious ploys but instead the way in which he is able to leave his impression on people. Or perhaps I was just looking too far into it. Either way, his intentions landed, though it remained a factor in the _back_ of my mind instead of the forefront.

Since leaving, I had spent a few days in a desultory manner before deciding that I needed to do something to put my own money in my pocket. I had already sold every possession I could bear parting with, including the revolver I had taken from Holmes, to a street vendor in favor of the use of one of his small hotel rooms. They were small and dingy yet fulfilled my purpose just as well as a master suite would. I spent my mornings hung over a stale cup of coffee and thinking of where to go and what to do with myself. The ideas which presented themselves as solutions to getting _back_ were so abstract, so completely farfetched, that I was in a constant state of frustration. They became so feeble that I even came, at one point, to the possibility of _cheep beer_ being my portal home. That wasn't it, though I sure didn't mind the idea of testing that particular theory.

Oh, but as it was when I first arrived here, I was broke of every shilling I didn't have. Before starting on my journey home I had to prepare myself for an indeterminable amount of time spent here. I was and am still a doctor, so I thought about going down to the hospital to apply for work. Surely the papers wouldn't make too big a deal of my name (which _they_ never got) so I might have a fair chance at getting an occupation. But until then I needed to bring myself back up to a presentable state; new wardrobe, a shaving kit, reputable rooms, everything to rid myself of my days previous.

So until I got the funds to achieve those goals, I had to settle with smaller fees which paid as I did the jobs. Like a young lad new to the working world, I found myself seeking people who needed an extra hand in turn for a tip. Not to say it was meager work; I helped an old book man stock his shelves, a family on the move to Germany who needed help loading their carriage, I even used my prestigious surgical skills to mend a cat as well as butcher chops at the market. It wasn't stable work, but I can't say I didn't feel satisfied at the end of the day.

Feeling better about myself, I thought a small celebration was in order, and so I visited a well established pub to have a frothy glass of beer. I had settled myself at the counter, placed my order, and helped myself to a newspaper I found abandoned at the spot next to me. After a short while my drink arrived and I downed it with a happy feeling in my gut that this was a well earned drink, not one of spit nor desperation, but one to relax my nerves after a few day's good work. I had just placed an order for a second when an old newspaper was slapped down before me. I looked at it dumbly, not understanding why that creeping feeling along my spine had returned. There was a small headline circled in red ink which read, "UNATTENDED POLICE COACH CRASH: UNIDENTIFIED BODY FOUND WITHIN".

"Funny how small the part about the constable is, considering he was found shot twice." I turned quickly round only to find the should-be Inspector Lestrade standing, alive and well, behind me.

"Lestrade! You're alive!" I shouted in delight.

Disregarding me completely, he pushed the paper back on the counter and pointed to the article. "It's all speculation, the whole bloody lot of it. _Who did this? Was it Sherlock Holmes? Is this the doings of a murderous criminal or that of a vengeful wife_? A vengeful wife! There's a whole lot of nonsense and very little about the Scotland Yarder who lost his life,"

"Lestrade, how on earth did you escape?"

The smaller man looked at me with such bitter contempt that I found it hard to keep eye contact. He pursed his lips before shaking his head and taking the empty seat next to me. "It's disgusting where these people's priorities lie... wouldn't you say?"

"Lestrade..."

"I'm getting tired of hearing you say my name, sir. How I escaped is none of your bloody business; what you should consider yours, however, is when you're planning on telling the police what happened _after_. Where did you go? What did _he_ say? And most interestingly of all, how are _you_ still alive?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, having been over this question many times. "As I've already told you, Holmes and I are acquaintances. For what reason would he have to murder me?"

Lestrade screwed his features as he looked from me to the glass of beer. In a speculative voice, he said, "The look on your face when he first arrived would argue otherwise."

I held a steady gaze with him and yet I was feeling immense relief at simply seeing the man standing before me rather than buried in the ground. It was funny how I was able to pick up this air of confidence round the little man and use it against him, thus I was able to smoothy shrug my shoulders and sip from my new glass. "I don't have to explain anything to you, Lestrade. I could ask you how you came out alive, but by the look on _your_ face, I doubt I'd get a coherent answer."

He pushed away from the counter now. "Alright, boy-o, I see you're still covering for that man. Don't think I'm going to let this rest; you did a very good job at ruining my life and I feel as though I ought to return the favor." He tilted his head and continued to give me that analytical stare. "You don't seem to be in a rush to go anywhere, perhaps you'd like to take this time and tell me who the hell you are?"

I thought at that point that I may just suffocate in this quagmire of lies I was setting for myself. My gut was telling me that Lestrade, a man with whom I could only call an acquaintance in my usual life, deserved the truth as much as Holmes did. However, I was not stupid; least not in cases like this. I had my assumptions, but as Holmes always told me, I should never fully speculate upon a person until I had all the facts, which I did not. I had no idea what to do, and so deciding to prolong the inevitable, I scrawled out on a napkin the address of my hotel. I slid it over to him, watching his eyes drop and reading what I had written.

"When?" He asked, taking my cue.

"When the infamous Sherlock Holmes succumbs to the will of the people and becomes a detective." I said sardonically.

"Funny." was his only reply. He read over the slip of paper again, committing it to memory, then tore it up. "Don't expect me not to knock you up in the middle of the night; I've a lot of time on my hands now, and a whole lot more patience to hear this magnificent story of yours."

I nodded, waving him off. He clapped a hand to my shoulder as any watching spectators would have appointed as a friendly departure, but in truth, it was more like a threat as well as a promise. I turned my eyes to the beer before me on the counter, only looking up once the little Inspector was headed for the door.

I gazed after him for only a moment more before calling him back.

"Watch yourself, man!" I shouted. "Dead people are supposed to remain dead. Others like to be sure of that." If one were to suggest that I was speaking more to myself than to him, one would not be entirely wrong. He turned to me and smiled.

"You forget that I was almost a police officer once."

He then disappeared behind a taller man, in the distance, and out of my hair.

I swore silently to myself and gulped down what remained in my glass. The moment I slammed it down, there was another waiting for me. I looked to the bartender, a man who was nobody in this life; he only shrugged.

"You look like you need it. A few pence lost... it sounds a lot better than what that was."

I thanked him with a nod and took the proffered drink. It was strong whiskey, much stronger than the beer I had been drowning in, but I readily welcomed the burning liquid.

"I lost one of my boys to a stray bullet," he told me. "He was my sister's son. Good kid, not much else to him though."

"I'm sorry," I responded.

"Yes, well, the Lord has a punch in store for everyone I suppose. Anyway, you seem like a good enough fellow. Things are difficult since the business lost its delivery boy, and I'd be more 'n glad to offer you the job."

I looked up at him in surprise, wondering if I indeed looked _that_ bad. He smiled at me but I couldn't bear to look at it. "I imagine you'll be seeing a lot more of me; I'd rather not find myself working here as well."

He accepted this and turned to tend his other customers.

* * *

_An excerpt from the life and diary of Sherlock Holmes:_

_Meeting with M had gone very badly. Can't go back now, would appear even more of a fool; I can't afford to be this careless. I know my purpose and am confident in my strides and yet I find myself slipping. Darville will no doubt hunt us down- minus one. Dear me, I've gotten good at losing things lately. No matter, Darville will rear his face and I'll make sure disregard it wholly. I don't suppose I'll go back to M, not upon this matter. I don't need to patch my shortcomings; he will do fine without me as I will without him._

"Holmes, we need to talk."

"Choke on spit."

"You're a funny one; a real comedian. Where's the doctor?"

"There never was one. Now if you'll only step off the bridge and into the Thames, I'd be much obliged."

"And the snickers keep on coming. I'm over Pelhem, his worth is nothing to me now. I've hatched a new plan and it yearns completion."

"I don't know why you're wasting your breath."

"You don't understand! There's a man begging to be off'd-"

"My next murder shall be you. Leave me."

"I'm terribly sorry, mister Holmes, am I a bother? You took to that cripple well enough,"

"I advise you never speak of him in my presence-"

"Word travels fast if you've the right ear for it. Made quite the impression on M, hasn't he? Though what else can you expect from the company of London's most wanted. Where is he? If you won't help me, then surely your friend, whom is the only man _worthy of your attention_, ought to be of some assistance."

"Keep away from him. He's not my friend nor has he ever. Lord knows, maybe I've already killed him."

"He's dead?"

"Our acquaintance is."

_What I do need is to distract myself from this horrible mess, but I have no plans. None. I haven't had any for quite a while now, which I suppose would explain why I ever agreed to help that poor figure of a man. But of Darville or Watson do I speak? I meant Darville and his futile little scheme, but upon rereading that last line I found my thoughts drawing back to the doctor. It doesn't matter. Oh, yes it does!_

"Mr. Holmes, I implore you on the grounds that you owe me-"

"I owe you nothing! No more than a bullet owes an apology!

_He is a phenomenon, the long awaited rains upon my barren fields._

"You will never see glory nor will anyone ever see it in you.

_I grow bored and restless with myself, constantly shoving away ne'er do wells by proclaiming myself busy._

"Go on, back to M, back to your hovel and to what little friends you have. Sob into their heartless breast and sing your woes, I can guarantee none will listen.

_Only the knowledge of M's influence over Darville's seemingly trivial case spurred my interest, but honestly?_

"Good day, Geoffrey D'Arville. I spurn your step just as your spurn mine."

_What more could a bored soul ask for than a stranger who claims he is from another time or place entirely? Not only that, but apparently my good friend in that other time or place. I can't say more on the matter other than that I wish him well. He interests me greatly and I was... admittedly, saddened to see him walk out my doors._

The walk back from the bar remained uneventful. Of course D'Arville tried to appeal to Holmes, but that was like asking a wall to step aside; it wouldn't happen.

_However, I am consoled with the knowledge that he was lying. Had his story been true I highly doubt he would have walked out with such confidence and finality. How he picked up all the knowledge... well, he has his ways just as I have mine, I suppose. Though that is what intrigues me the most; have I found an adversary in this man? His intelligence is astounding! The air about him so unusual, the way he projects these false emotions, why, I almost believe him. His very presence stimulates me... but I'm not to dwell on that. What I need to focus on is his potential threat. I did not lie to him when I said I wasn't a criminal simply to become one but if a man with his capabilities is loose about London, then I think that I have finally found my match. I ought to watch out for him and see what he does now that his plans on infiltrating me have failed._

The door opens, like it always does, into a room that is empty, like it should be. Sherlock Holmes slowly surveys his room and notes how incredibly normal things look; nothing is out of place and nothing will be out of place unless he himself wishes it. No surprises, no unexpected conversations or revelations, nothing to tempt resistance in giving in. Everything is exactly how it's supposed to be and completely under his control. Exactly what he does not want.

_Do you know? Even I find all this sad. If only the thoughts on these pages were mine and not simply my projected fantasies. In truth I am distraught to be without Dr Watson sitting apprehensively in the seat next to me, constantly reminding me of things I never experienced while simultaneously trying to convince me that I should change my ways. The emotions he's made me feel cannot be faked and so I must believe him._

Despondently, he sits as his desk and retrieves the notebook containing all his stray thoughts. Putting pen to paper, master criminal steps down to the novice scribbler.

_But it's so absurd! The very idea of a paralleled world to the one I live in now is outlandish! How could it be true, all logical barriers aside? How could I be a detective who devotes his time to helping the lowly dwellers of London and the swine down at Scotland Yard? No, they're not swine. They are merely other people. But that is beside the point entirely. What upsets me the most is Watson. He is a good man, one which I cannot envision tolerating my baleful behavior. Though in the bigger picture, he and I are unimportant. A life which I spend devoting myself to solving other people's conundrums instead of my own seems terrifying. I do not wish to help these people. I listen to his tales of our adventures, and truthfully, I still don't think justice was what fed my motives. Seems to me the pure mental stimulation alone is what kept me to my field. It would seem a very small thread had been severed to deliver me to this place instead of the one he so wistfully envisions. I'm not proud in this state. I hold no firm beliefs in my position. I have never thought of the alternative, actually, though at an earlier age I wish that I did. _

_It's not a matter which side of the coin you choose: to become a detective means you've the will of the people and all of Scotland Yard at you back, in a way you have an invisibly army to protect you while choosing the life of a criminal is more like a slow, isolated suicide. No one cares enough to back you on my firm belief than no man truly loves evil. No one to trust, no one turn to for help, no sense of purpose being fulfilled. In short: you are alone, facing down men who are supported by_their_invisible armies. _

_I am haunted with the knowledge that things didn't have to be this way; my views on society remain in tack, though perhaps a few doors have been reopened. Is it possible, I wonder, to get him back? I don't know if I'm glad to know what could have been my life, but Watson is something I now regret losing._

He lost his pipe when he threw it at D'Arville just under an hour ago.

_Rubbish! I've wasted ink rubbing out those lines! This is why he and I parted ways in both our worlds; the man is clearly an obstacle and I_should_be thanking him for leaving! I cannot get past whether he is wholly insane or else a manipulative genius; perhaps even both! But it was I who said I believed him. Truth be told, I did and still do but for what reason I cannot figure._

_I've filled many pages with my woes and not my progressions; it's hardly distinguishable from the Doctor's journal which I have in my pocket. Notebooks are to be filedl with notes and plans, not introspective speculations on a single man and a life I was destined to have yet robbed of living. I can't even write a sentence without it going from logical to emotional. I will have to burn these poor pages as they provide nothing for me. Perhaps it is time I get off my arse and remind myself what I truly live for-_

"Or maybe I ought to kill D'Arville instead."


	10. Chapter 10

When one is being followed, it is almost as if you've acquired a sort of sixth sense for the person. Oddly, if you had a friend trying to hail you on a busy street, you'd tend to miss them. However if you are strolling round the park, between bars or even along foot traffic at the market, a pursuing presence will cling to the back of your mind like a head cold.

And I knew beyond a doubt that I was being followed. From the moment I left the bar I could feel someone's heavy gaze watching after me. Even more so a day later when I found myself at the market on errand for my landlady. I was viciously crammed between at least four different bodies; shoulders bumped against mine, toes were stepped on; I even got shoved violently aside from a determined veteran. But thorough all this I was able to feel someone distinctly catching my arm so as to get my attention. I snapped to get sight of who, but only caught the retreating hand. This did not bode well on my conscience; it took that hand on my arm to convince me. I looked to either side as well as back from whence I came, finding nothing suspicious save the rustling of a coat. I hadn't dwelled much on it, however, as I tried appointing it to pure paranoia. But walking down the streets I was plagued with the unease of invisible company. It was then that I highly regretted not being armed.

Even worse, I knew it could not be Holmes. I had been training my mind off him since I left his rooms; telling myself that not every instance of contact with a stranger was he, nor would I wake one night to find everyone in the hotel dead as some sort of morbid reparation. He is not the Holmes I knew, I told myself. He would not be so concerned. After all, the finality with which I left him seemed a clear cut sign of our parting ways.

But it's not only he with whom I've shown my face and introduced my name. There remained D'Arville and the other gentleman I met through Irene Adler. What of the former, I didn't know what to expect. But the later I felt safe in that he seemed too important to care about me. Then again, he also seemed the type of man who had eyes everywhere which made it likely that I was efficiently visible should he like me to be so. On nights when this knowledge harrowed me exceptionally, I would take solace in that I was merely thinking too much about it. If I were a man in their position, someone of my unimportant caliber would be noted but not worried. And yet...

And yet, one must never ignore one's impulses.

It was an early Tuesday morning when I dressed and attended my toilet at usual. Dressed in new frock and trimming a few stray hairs from my mustache, I looked into the mirror and, for once during this convoluted adventure, smiled and felt genuinely satisfied with myself. Things were looking up for me; I was no longer haggard and my eyes seemed just a bit brighter. Not something I usually noted in myself, but after it's been gone and replaced by_something else_ for so long, I couldn't help but to see it. I was still buggered by the idea, or lack there-of, on how to get back and once again picked up my vow to accept things as they came to me.

So adjusting my cravat to militant perfection and dusting off my hat, I strode happily out of the confides of my hotel.

I had a patient, believe it or not. A friend of the manager who hit his leg during a nasty fall. I tended to him, a large, spritely sort of fellow, and had his ankle bound and ready for recovery. He thanked me earnestly and insisted upon a large tip atop of the agreed price. He also said I looked thin as a dog, thus inviting me to share dinner as well (to which I politely declined).

You can only imagine how thrilled I was to be able to practice my profession again! Even more so when I had an urgent telegram delivered to me during afternoon tea. A gentleman by the name of Carlton was feeling heavy chest pains as well as a blinding headache. He called for my presence immediately at an address in the Albany, a trip I was only too happy to make.

But truly, I feel more sorry than anything else in regards of Mr. Carlton; I still do to this day. It's not that I was unable to help him, nor that his condition was beyond repair, but my sorrow goes out to him for the very simple reason that I never met him. Picking up my Gladstone and hailing a cab, I was struck so suddenly with that subconscious bode of ill will. An arm reached out from literally nowhere and pulled me roughly away from the busy streets. I dropped my bag and nearly lost my balance as, once again, the vision of a wall quickly came before me.

"Dr. Watson! I've been meaning to have a word with you," I had barely caught a glimpse of the man's face before his hand came up behind me and shoved my face into the brick. "You're stronger then you let on to be. I suppose there's a world's worth of surprises,"

"Who the devil is this and why are we meeting in such a manner?" I demanded.

There was a dry chuckle from behind me. "You don't remember? Can't you even recognize my voice? I'm appalled, sir, truly appalled." he spun me round then, holding me firmly at arms length. "It's funny; I picked up your voice immediately when we were in that crowded bar."

And there was the young, handsome face of D'Arville, staring down at me. I tried to speak, but found no words.

"You must not talk much. If I recall correctly, the last thing you said to me was, _'Lay on, MacDuff'._ Well, here I am, ready to lay on."

"What do you want?" I spat, struggling against him.

There was a tense moment when neither of us spoke, D'Arville's eyes roaming my face skeptically before breaking out in a smile.

"Oh, I'm only fooling you, Doctor! Please forgive me and my theatrics. I only thought that if you were thinking of dabbling in the criminal world, you ought to get a real feel for it." He picked up my bag and handed it to me. "It feels strange referring to my world as the criminal one, isn't it? Criminals shouldn't be self-realized."

I rolled my eyes; he probably heard that from Holmes, as the line was much too clever to be his. "Then I suppose we now know why your name is so notorious. You're so well learned in your profession, D'Arville." said I.

He laughed at my sarcasm and linked his arm with mine. I shook it off. "A humorous leg you stand on. I see why you and Holmes got along so well; you both enjoy jokes at my own expense... any how, I'm glad to have found you. I couldn't help but notice you had someone join you the other day that wasn't myself nor Mr. Holmes. Who was he? A friend of yours?"

"Hardly that," I said heatedly. "He's a small person I wish to avoid for the time being."

"Small indeed!" D'Arville laughed while I remained silent. After his merriment died down, he guided me along the street while completely ignoring my impolite protest. "If he's such a bother, why give your time to him?"

I could have laughed; in fact, I'm laughing right now. "He's nothing more than a pest!" I lied. "All I need do is say a few words to him and he'll be off my back. It's nothing _you_ need concern yourself with."

"Why not just have your friend Holmes kill him for you?" he asked quietly, much in the same fashion Holmes and I talked of him. "I'm sure it wouldn't take up too much of his well-conceived time. Besides," D'Arville's grip tightened against my arm. "Of what sacrifice would it be if only it were a favor to a friend?"

He was smiling at me now, but I could see though his flimsy veil. I narrowed my eyes and slowed my pace. "What do you want, D'Arville?"

We were nearing the edge of the street now; the place where voices are drowned out and important conversations are to be had. The man let go of me, crossing his arms over his chest and looking out at the traffic. I watched him for some moments, waiting for his _theatrics_ to run their course and for him to get to the point. "I want to know why you've decided to sell out on Holmes. You of all people should know that he's not a man to cross; you'll be dead before you even know what's happened." He locked gazes with me again, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders. "Or maybe I'll try appealing to him. I'll make up for our rows a few day back by handling you myself. It'd be one less, insignificant thing off his mind."

I glared at the man, anger swelling within my chest as I had the urge to shove him before a speeding trap. The air round him was like poison; suffocating and snuffing my mind so far that I could no longer stand to be near him. And I will not lie when I admit that the amounting fear in my heart was near to bursting. "I suggest you not pry into the business of men like Sherlock Holmes. I have done nothing to provoke him and you'd better feel glad that he can't even bother with the likes of you. Good day, D'Arville."

I turned to leave when his voice anchored me back.

"It is a good day indeed when one chalks up a point with the infamous. I've no idea where you come from, Doctor Watson, but you seem to be making very extraordinary friends in an extraordinarily short amount of time. Heh, it doesn't take a genius like Sherlock Holmes to see you're a double-headed coin. I am curious, Doctor, to hear why he's taken on a misfit like you. More importantly, I'd like to know why he's just now in self-denial about your existence."

I had been halted mid-step when his words entered my ear. It didn't matter to me, honestly. I was no longer tied to the man who went by the name Sherlock Holmes. We were perfects strangers. So why is it that I was so thrown off guard to hear what D'Arville had said? I took a deep breath and, without turning to face him, muttered, "When you're someone who's made a difference, then I imagine your audience is never too privy to lend an ear. Maybe you'll know what that's like one day, D'Arville."

I stepped off in the opposite direction, more desperate than ever to throw caution to the wind and run back to my hotel. I could actually feel D'Arville's gaze burning into my back as I quickened my pace. "And what have you done, Doctor Watson?" He shouted, picking up his feet now in restless pursuit. "What crimes have you commit to gain the attention of the elusive Sherlock Holmes?"

"Apparently ones you find yourself incapable of accomplishing, my dear mister D'Arville!" I called over my shoulder, side-stepping a pair of men in evening dress. I could hear their irritation as D'Arville pushed past them with little show of grace.

"And what is that supposed to mean? Who are you! From whence have you come and to where do you intend to go!"

Weaving in and out of the crowd in a mad dash back to my rooms; my thigh burning, my forehead sweating and blood pounding in my ears, I again dodged his outstretched hand. I was amazed no one was able to gather the identity of this dead man and his criminally wanted pursuer from all the yelling he did. You've got to appreciate London and it's people when caught unawares.

Geoffrey D'Arville continued to shout after me but I stopped listening awhile back. I wanted to get back to my rooms and yet I had no idea what I'd do once I got there. Whatever my brilliant decision would prove to be, it would be revealed within the next three minutes. My block was fast approaching and the sea of people helped to put some distance between D'Arville and myself. I stormed into the lobby, ignoring the annoyed look on the landlady's face as I rushed up the stairs. I sprinted to my room, grabbing the knob and throwing my door open without even realizing that it was unlocked. I slammed it shut behind me, collapsing against it as I sunk down to the floor.

My face felt hot and my lungs were raw; I wanted to pass out right there, if only I had been alone in my company.

"Jumped off more stolen carriages today, have we?" I opened my eyes to see Lestrade standing by my bedpost.

"Lestrade! You- you're here today?" I choked out breathlessly.

"I told you to expect me-"

"Yes yes, I know what you said! I just didn't expect to find you here- now of all times!"

He chewed the inside of his cheek, nodding his head in unimpressed amazement. "I came for our appointment, on my convenience, mind, only now I'm a bit more interested in why you've rushed here out of breath. Care for a drink?"

I stood on shaking legs and stepped toward him. I wanted to be a better host and still more a better unannounced friend, but the knowledge that D'Arville would come storming through my doors at any moment halted such notations. I met Lestrade by my small dresser and took the proffered drink.

The brandy burned down my throat, leaving me feeling a bit better yet not at all eased. "So, you- well, what would-"

A door crashed downstairs and my landlady gave a shout. Lestrade tensed and craned his neck. "Oy! What's going on down there?" he asked. I, too, looked at the door but could supply nothing.

"I'm sure it's nothing. Perhaps more lodgers moving in."

"That doesn't sound like-"

"Please, Lestrade! I mean, yes, we're here now, and you've things to ask. So, on with it."

He looked at me with startled bewilderment before regaining control of himself. "How about we start with your name? For starters."

And for the second time that day my voice was lost. My mind was swirling in anticipation as the steps were thundering down and nearer my room. I looked at Lestrade, but before I could answer, my door was thrown open.

I was completely unarmed, so with much haste I grabbed the nearest thing I could and raised it above my head. Meanwhile Lestrade swiftly pulled out a concealed revolver which I didn't even know he possessed and had it cocked and ready. In an instant we were both turned to the door, arms at the wait.

D'Arville was petrified for a split second before turning up his hands and taking a step back. I swallowed and tightened my grip on the lamp, muscles tensing. Lestrade held his own, revolver pointed at D'Arville's chest. The man before us looked from one to the other before laughing.

"What is this?" He said, voice trembling slightly.

"I'm about to ask you the same thing!" Lestrade responded cooly.

D'Arville looked to me and shook his head nervously. "Is this a joke, Doctor? Were you trying to trick me with the whole_he's not my friend; I hardly know him_thing?"

"You ought to leave, mister," said the smaller man next to me, shoving a second revolver into my hand. I abandoned my improvised weapon and accepted the gun.

"Yes, D'Arville, step away. I'm not afraid to shoot you." Here is where the little detective shot me a most skeptical glance before training his eyes forward again.

"Will you?"

I pulled back the hammer to show him I would.

D'Arville nodded his head. "Alright, Doctor, alright. I'm leaving." True to his word, he began backing out. Both Lestrade and I took a step forward and followed him with our revolvers. Out into the hallway, pushing the offender back he made his final vow. "You're good at making friends." He glanced at Lestrade. "On both sides, it seems. Don't you worry your pretty face, Doctor, you'll be seeing me again."

"Get out!" I shouted. And he did.

We both watched as he hastily retreated down the steps and through the swinging door. I was still shaking with the adrenaline from moments ago that I finally let out a breath once the door closed. Lestrade, too, seemed to be taking a moment to recover himself. I turned to him, offered my hand, and shook his with vigor.

"My name's Watson. Pleasure to meet you once again, Lestrade."


	11. Chapter 11

Tobias Gregson, a man of decent height and grand mustache, greeted us at Scotland Yard with glittering eyes and blooming excitement.

"And the plucky devil himself returns to our graces!"

Lestrade, with whom the derogatory statement had been aimed, huffed his amusement and stood rigidly before the officer. I had been overlooked while this exchange took place; it was not until I removed my hat and cleared my throat that I was granted full audience.

Gregson's good-natured smile dissipated as he lay eyes on me.

"By George, you're alive after all,"

"Brilliant deduction, sir," said Lestrade, taking a seat.

The inspector looked between the two of us with a confused and distrusting twitch before stepping round his desk. With his hands spread on the surface before him, his eyes darted between the two of ours rigidly as he inhaled a steady breath. "Come to turn yourself in, have you?"

"I'm here to clear my name." I said, avoiding his achingly obvious approach.

"Clear your name!" he laughed. "And how do you suppose that? You can't just walk in 'ere an' expect me to-"

"I am simply asking you to sit down and hear me out, Inspector Gregson. It may not be worth your while, but it certainly is worth mine."

Lestrade tipped his hat above his eyebrows and sighed. "Please, sir, it'd be much easier if you just comply."

Gregson looked far from amused by what he invited into his office, though with bitter acceptance he bit his lip and bade I continue.

"I would like to begin with the simple fact that I am not a criminal." I took my seat, watching his finicking features slacken. "I have done nothing to offend London or its people as the matters concerning Sherlock Holmes, as reported by Stanley Hopkins-"

"God rest his soul."

"... the matters in which I was first arrested, were made by misconstrued information. I do indeed know a man by the name of Holmes, but he is not the criminal Hopkins imagined I was referring. You see, I was out of London for quite a while now visiting family on the continent while simultaneously fulfilling my desire to travel. When I returned I thought I'd look up an old school friend of mine who went by the name Sherlock Holmes. Little did I know that is would be met by such disastrous misunderstandings! But nonetheless, I met the man whose name exactly matches my friend's and was subsequently abducted for a few days. No harm came to me before I left him."

Gregson stood suddenly and clenched both his hands into round, pink fists. "That's a very fascinating tale there, mister...?"

"Watson."

"Watson. Yes, a very fascinating story, but what exactly do you mean when you say you _left_? No one just _leaves_, for God's sake!"

I can't say I didn't expect him to catch that, though I really must congratulate the man. I relayed my days spent with Holmes from the cab heist to my leaving (though I omitted a few choice occasions) and put extra emphasis on the humanity displayed by the criminal in question. Throughout my account Gregson would nod his head even though it seemed like he wasn't listening. Lestrade, to my right, sat very patiently and soaked up my words like a sponge. I was not interrupted through my entire speech, but judging by the looks on my companions faces I knew that I got my argument across. Gregson had only one complaint by the end.

"You said you left."

"Exactly so, I left. Out of some slew of conscience, the man decided to let me off at a nondescript bar where I was allowed to take my leave."

He was sitting back and examining me with uneasy eyes. After a while his gaze switched to Lestrade.

"And what about you?" he asked. "Why're you here?"

"This gentleman was kind enough seek me out and apologize for my injuries. It _was_ partially his fault." Lestrade cast a glance my way, his lips pulling into smile. "Anyway, I thought the least I could do was provide support, seeing as how I met him before the incident and can fully attest to his innocence."

"So you tellin' me, Mr. Watson," he said with a chaste glance towards my companion. "That one of our best inspectors was wrong when he said you were connected with Holmes? Look here, I'm willing to buy into a few strange claims, listen to word before I make opinion, but I'm finding it very hard to believe you right now. In fact, I'd like nothing more then to take you in."

I schooled my features with complete finality towards my statement. "I don't believe you've any actual evidence to prove what Stanley Hopkins has claimed against me, _sir_. You don't have my confessions and you have no witnesses. Though I am aware that it would be careless to suggest trust in my word as I will admit to the seriousness of current circumstances." I met Gregson's eye and watched as they narrowed to my words. "To have good faith amongst your men is ideal, Inspector, but to accept their word before fact is pure insolence."

A heavy silence fell upon the room as our officer wracked his brain to come up with a considerable conclusion. I was shifting uneasily next to Lestrade who was, in turn, quite in control of himself. But I waited patiently as Gregson pulled out a notebook and scrawled out a few hasty lines. Satisfied with whatever he'd written, he closed the book and slipped it into a drawer beneath his desk.

"I'll make you gentlemen a deal. What say you?"

"What sort of deal?" Lestrade asked, leaning forward.

"The kind of deal that establishes one's trust in another man's word."

We both nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"You look like a strong enough fellow," he said to me. "How familiar are you with a gun? And no need to be a gentleman about it."

"Unashamedly, I'm quite aquatinted with them. I was an army doctor only a few years ago; my record was nearly unbeatable."

"Good to hear. And what about you?"

Lestrade's face flushed red at the question. "You know damn well how good I am with a pistol, you twit!"

I could tell Gregson wanted to throw his head back laugh, but he settled on a small, demeaning chuckle. "I'm only asking for factual sake! You must not have been good enough to make it into the academy, at least. No, no, Lestrade, I remember you well enough. But there is a protocol to follow, as you are both _almost_ my responsibility."

Almost his responsibility? "If you mean to proposition us-"

"That is exactly what I mean to do, boy-o." I had to blink back my astonishment before I could respond. I couldn't, of course, because when Tobias Gregson has the spotlight, there isn't a soul who can take it from him. "You have merits that the Yard could utilize. Legally I cannot invite you into the force, but I can deputize you." He cast his glance towards Lestrade. "Who knows? Maybe they'll even give _you_ a second thought."

"Do you mean to say," I started, holding his gaze until he was no longer smiling. "Do you propose we follow under your word and help to bring in _criminals_?"

I could see Lestrade from the corner of my eye smiling, despite trying to suppress it. For him this was a second chance at what he was first denied. If he could establish himself in the face of the law, much like my Holmes did, then they would immediately jump at the opportunity to admit him into their ranks. But for me, it was like painting a target on my chest. I was no detective, I had no stake in this game without Holmes at my side protecting my back and leading me ahead. Here I was surrounded by no one who would do that. And aside from that issue, there was the fact that I had made myself known to not only that accursed D'Arville, but also that mysterious man from the club. If I were to think, for one moment, of turning against their better graces and having the misfortune of bringing in one of their men, well surely I would fall lower upon their conscience. It would be an insult to _them_ that would cost _me_ my life. And if I knew Gregson, which I still believe I did, he would try to utilize me and find a way to get at Holmes. Wouldn't it be grand if Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard was able to bring down Sherlock Holmes (of course, _with the assistance of some unknown)?_

I shuttered at the thought but could not escape the glinting victory in the officer's eyes. "You will have to prove to me, Mr. Watson, that you're a man of your word. Now I know it can be intimidating, going up against this lot. What? Of course I'm not going to waste you on petty patrols and swooning drunks! No, no, my good sir, you will be on appointment directly from me. You will report to me whenever I call you; you will do exactly as I say and you will follow whenever danger beckons at London's doorstep. Lestrade here will keep you alive... he'll have to because I am far too busy to do so myself."

I shook my head. "Look, sir, this is a very reasonable proposition, but..."

"But what?" It was Lestrade who asked.

"But I can't accept."

"If you refuse me," Gregson stroked his mustache as he spoke. "Then I will have no choice but to put you in on suspicious behavior. I do believe you've spent a night or two in our cells. You can easily find yourself there again."

I wanted to reason with him, offer anything, but I already knew it was a losing battle. When arguing with an intellectual, one had the power to convince and convey reason. But when one is dealing with an idiot, words are only wasted. Besides, I don't think Lestrade would have let me leave without conceding. This was his chance at redemption, and I owed him that much. I did ruin his life, after all.

I stood up, smashed my hat to my head, and struck out my hand. Lestrade followed with more grace and watched as the inspector and I shook.

"I look forward to seeing what you can do, Oh Criminal."

* * *

"Why the trepidation in there? I saw no reason for it."

"I really can't say why."

"It's because of Holmes, I reckon. Are you afraid of him?"

"No, it isn't that. I suppose I'm just nervous as to what we may find... of who may find _us_."

Our conversation held none of the trivialities strangers resorted to in our walk back to my rooms. We talked little about Gregson and our new found obligation, however, Lestrade did ask about D'Arville and why I didn't mention him. I told him what I knew about the egotistical twit whom treated himself as a threat.

"I've never heard of him before."

"That's very likely. He's done nothing worth your attention."

"All the same, you can't ignore men like that. They're bound to turn up something."

I nodded, accepting this readily. "I'd bring him down myself if I could, if only to get him out of my life. However, with what authority I have, my only option would be murder."

"Well, it doesn't _have_ to be; just turn him in."

"I wouldn't have a case against him in court, I'm afraid. He's good about keeping his name clear; that much I _can_ say about him."

Lestrade shrugged off my comment and looked ahead. Looking at him in that moment, watching as his hands fisted in his pockets while he tried to remain civil by my side, I couldn't help but sense an immense change in character from the little detective I knew him as. He seemed to sense something in my thoughts as he began to turn down a different street.

"I suppose I'll be seeing a lot more of you from now on, Dr. Watson. I only pray you don't lose yourself in the battle."

He didn't look at me and I didn't answer.

And that was the mark, and indeed the nature, of our new partnership. As I sat up in bed that night I reflected upon exactly what that meant and what my feelings about it where. In the end, I didn't quite know what to think about replacing Sherlock Holmes as my friend and partner with the man that had always been known to me simply as Inspector G. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard.

* * *

**Instead of another paragraph explaining why my updates are so suckish, and also that I am surprised that I've had this much written out for, like, ever, and just never realized this was the place to part, I'm curious to know: How do you guys picture Holmes? What with all the numerous adaptations, each bearing it's own unique voice, I'm interested to hear how you imagine him.**

**For me he is a mix across the mediums: In my mind Holmes resembles RDJ from the movie, with the grey eyes and mannerisms of canon, and the voice of John Telfer from the audiobooks (which I absolutely**_**cannot**_**recommend more).**


	12. Chapter 12

I was standing beneath the lamplight at a corner store; the wind was sweeping at my feet and caressing the back of my neck. In my hands I held the secrets of an underground movement contained within a packet of various letters bundled together and tied in a sheet of brown paper. I idly fingered the twine as my gaze swept across the streets, my ears alert for the sounds of footsteps. Impatiently I had plunged the package back in my pocket and retrieved my watch instead.

A quarter till midnight. And too my left, the prophesied footsteps.

I slung an arm round the metal post and tipped my hat in the direction of a passing cab, receiving no response. The man with whom I was to meet sidled up to me and brushed his shoulder against mine, continuing to round the corner. I kept my stance until he was out of my tiny circle of light, and then I followed him into the darkness.

I kept exactly eight paces in his stead and watched expectantly as he disappeared into a shady passage. I casually took the same turn falling in mutual destination, but not before craning my neck to make sure I wasn't being followed myself. When satisfied, I faced my companion and was met by a pair of nervous eyes. I removed the parcel and nudged it towards his waiting hand. As experience taught him, the man made to walk past me while simultaneously slipping the packet into his pocket. I looked down at my thumb while keeping my peripheral vision on the figure now exiting the ally.

When he was gone I let out an exasperated breath and sagged against the wall. I closed my eyes and inhaled the chilly air, rolled my shoulders, and regained my posture. I exited the same way but headed back from whence I first came. Striding past the streetlamp, entering and leaving the light, I hurried down the store fronts and stretched out my hand to knock on the closed door of a pawn shop. I kept my eyes trained forward as two constables silently burst forth and sprinted past towards where I had just come. I looked to my right, across the empty street, and tipped my hat once more into the general direction of, to the unknowing observer, _nothing_.

I cut through the very next passage between buildings and built my stride up into a quiet sprint. Keeping my breath steady, I broke into the open just in time to hear a most disdainful cry, followed by an uproar of shouts and commotion. A little ways up I was greeted by the sight of my correspondent, a man named Jared Marson, struggling with two police officers restraining his arms while a third tried his best to read off the man's offenses. A coach pulled up then, halting half-way between myself and the strife, and out stepped Gregson and Lestrade. The former cast a glance at me before nodding his head in approval. That was my signal to join in.

"Not so sharp when you're alone, are ye, Marson?" Gregson had his hand on his hips, stooping mockingly towards the bound prisoner.

The man spit in his face but missed when Lestrade stood and slapped the top of his head.

"Oy! You ought'nt be doing that, not when we got you pinned the way you are."

Marson's face was red as saliva dripped down a clean line over his chin.

"You've no idea what you're doing! You can't hold me!" He shouted.

"Yes, I think we can."

And, if my eyes didn't deceive me, I could swear that in pure desperation, Marson had actually tried to _bite_ the hands of the men holding him. This lead to more shouts and curses, ending with him getting shoved against the coach. It was when Gregson started counting off charges that the man caught my eyes.

I could have laughed at the look in his eyes, if only I knew he hadn't meant murder.

"You- oh! You scoundrel! You bloody bastard, you-"

"Enough of that, now!"

I shrugged my shoulders indifferently as he was roughly shoved into the confined walls which were to take him to station. Lestrade fastened a lock over the handles and turned to face me.

"Got this one sooner then I thought. Mighty clever of you, tippin' you hat and all."

"Nothing so simple!" Interrupted Gregson. "We very nearly missed it, what with the shadows across your face 'n all."

"You need to be more observant, then." I remarked. "You can't expect them to stay ignorant if I'm not careful."

Gregson looked towards his men, then back at me. "Never mind that, then. You played your part well Dr. Watson. I didn't think that plan of yours would work, but I guess I owe you a apology!" He said the last bit with a chuckle, indicating that he intended nothing of the sort. Lestrade had taken out a small book and scribbled hasty instructions on where to find the rest of the gang. The officer he handed it to signaled for followers and off they went to clean up the rest of this mess.

Gregson shook my hand, pulling me forward and patting my shoulder. "I knew I had a good one the moment I lay eyes on you!" He laughed, then quietly leaned in and whispered, "It's all the training you got from Holmes, eh? Just imagine if he were on our side!" His grin pulled so wide that the hairs of his mustache began to bristle round the corners of his mouth. I shook out of his grip and turned away.

"Don't be silly, Gregson. Sherlock Holmes would never be on our side."

"Ah, you don't know, do you? I tell you, if he had himself a proper upbringing he'd be a much pleasanter man."

Holmes. Pleasant to the Yard. That was worth a jolly good laugh.

"Exactly what caused him to turn against us, do you think?" I asked.

"I really don't know, honest. The only man I know who knew anything about the bloody scoundrel was Hopkins." A pause. "Unfortunately, you both did quite a number on him."

I was making my way down the street and towards my hotel with Gregson by my side while Lestrade with the bunch headed for Marson's men. I wasn't happy about him escorting me to my rooms but I'd decided to humor him for at least a little while. But of course, I shouldn't have put it past the man to turn the tables and offending _me_ before very long.

I had to bite by tongue to stay civil. "You keep telling yourself that and yet you've nothing to back it up." I knew he still held me responsible for the young detective's death, and for a while I acquiesced. But now it was simply tiring.

"You must understand, Dr. Watson, that I can't so easily overlook where you've come from. I know you said-"

"I don't think you ever listened enough to know what I've said. If you had, we wouldn't be discussing this now."

He gripped my elbow and swung me to a stop. "I don't care who you've bedded down with in the past, _Watson_. You don't talk that way to the men risking their lives for this city!"

"Lestrade and I have assisted with at least six cases by now, all of which the Yard previously deemed _insolvable_. I've never failed to show up to your summons and though you've been keeping watch over me- yes, I am aware of the man you have stationed across the street- I simply must beg of you to provide me with even an ounce of solid, indisputable proof that I deserve your scrutiny." We were about a block away from the hotel now, the muffled sounds of wind against the buildings as silence filled the night. Gregson was staring at me like he didn't know what to say, given that he knew his suppositions _were_ unfounded.

Instead of arguing against me, however, the inspector released my arm and began to strut back along the path.

"You come in and see me in the morning. Eight o' clock to fill out your reports."

I turned and continued forward without responding, without smiling and without thinking.

I climbed the rickety steps which smelled of damp cloth and turned round the corner, into my room, locking the door behind me. There was a bottle of wine brought up by one of the housemaids who had taken quite a liking to me, though I ignored her for the most part. I poured myself a glass and gulped it down in one swig, then poured another, repeating. I set the glass up-sidown over the bureau and sunk into my chair, running my hands through my hair and ignoring my rumbling stomach.

Some weeks had passed since Gregson's initial proposal to utilize Lestrade and I for his benefit. At first I was reluctant, as our assignment was to apprehend a known thief with a knack for leaving behind busted windows and thrown sheets. Though in the end I was comforted as we arrived at the house; the burglary was messy one with none of the finesse of a higher order. Obviously an amateur then, with no harrowing ties. Since then, all else followed the pattern of individual work which allowed me to easily fall into _solving_ cases instead of worrying about them. Holmes' influence shone most appreciatively for me as I was able to devise clever means of capturing our men using the techniques popularly employed by my friend. Lestrade, meanwhile, held an undeniably observant eye which caught details and allowed him to theorize. I was proud to see this trait, thinking that it played a larger role in his life here because he need actually prove himself instead of having the hearty assurance of Scotland Yard to fuel false ambitions. Together with some help from the other detectives, we've been able to apprehend many a ne'er do well while also keeping Gregson's view on us light.

But at the end of the day when Gregson would act dumbfounded (every time) that I actually was a man of good intentions, Lestrade would collect himself and part ways while I watched silently as the people surrounding me dissipated, leaving me to myself and my troubling woes. I hadn't seen face nor hair of D'Arville despite his threats, but I knew it was only a matter of time.

In the intervening days when Gregson had no need for me and I was left alone, I found myself regularly at the cemetery. I'm not sure if it was the sight of my gravestone which drew me to that place, but I found that I had a sort of blissful escape when I was there. At times I would walk the length of every row, scribbling the names I liked on paper and occasionally dropping flowers on graves which had none. As time wore on I thought about returning to Baker Street, if only to dwell in the darker recesses of my mind, which I often did. When I would sit on a lonely bench, at the park or wherever, I would retreat mentally back to my old flat and focus on all the things I no longer had available to me. Like my pipe or my novels, the journals of cases nor my trunk. I thought about all the pictures Holmes had in his room and wondered if any of those men lead a cleaner life in this world. It was a warming thought to think so.

After calming down I would go back to the hotel and offer my assistance to the landlord. Unfortunately, here you have what was basically my new, meager existence.

I closed my eyes preparing for silent meditation when I heard a knock at the door. Absolutely dreading the idea of being disturbed and wanting nothing more than to retreat, I found myself stepping forward and meeting my guest full on.

It was Geraldine, my admiring housemaid, bearing tea tray and blankets.

"Dr. Watson! I didn't know when you'd get back, so I've had Mrs. Peterson prepare this for you." She set the tray of cold meats on my bureau next to the wine glass. I regained my seat in the arm chair and watched as she folded down the blankets. She was a very pretty girl, Geraldine, with dark hair pulled neatly behind her ears. I thanked her for waiting up for me and dismissed her before she could find an excuse to stay longer.

"You needn't do that, Ms Jones. I can tend my own bed."

She nodded shyly, stepping towards the door.

"Is there anything else you'll be needing? I could ask Mrs. Peterson to bring you up a pot of coffee."

"No, thank you, but I'd rather not disturb her sleep."

"Oh, it's no trouble!" she protested. "She's already awake and if you catch her before-"

"Darling Geraldine, I know _you're_ the one who prepared my supper, and I thank you for it. But please, go to sleep, you need your rest."

She blushed a deep crimson and turned to open the door. "Alright then, doctor. Goodnight."

I slipped further into my chair, my eyes closed, until I heard the door shut behind her. I nearly smiled at the poor girl, but found myself too exhausted to do more then drag myself to bed.

* * *

The next day found me taking notes on a sight very familiar to my eyes. We stood in a handsome sitting room with rich paneling and exotic furniture, shelves lining what wall wasn't covered beneath paintings as an electric light glaringly illuminated a suspended corpse. The victim was of forty years of age, fine-featured with black hair tousled in a halo, his eyes delicately closed and his limbs limp as a doll. Inspector Aberdine, who stood-in on occasion for Gregson, touched a gentle hand to the man's sleeve and felt for some invisible clue. I, too, stepped up to examine the body which I observed, quite obviously, that the man had been murdered while in a state of ease. His evening coat hung neatly over the properly designated hook while a half empty glass of whiskey set quietly over the mantle. There was no blood, no discernible signs of foul play and nothing remarkable save room's apparent lack of company.

Aberdine had been told of this finding at around the time Lestrade and I were bringing about the close of Jared Marson's gang. When I arrived at Scotland Yard the next morning to fill out my paperwork, Gregson had stopped me and instead handed, on a square of foolscap, the address of this gentleman's house.

"I got pulled in on my rounds," said the inspector to me. "The lady who serves next door says she heard a peculiar noise at about 2 in the morning the night before. She tells me that Mr. Harton here was a naturally quiet man and that his coming home so late was unusual for his character. Curious yet respectful, she did not disturb him until he failed to collect his paper for the second day in a row. So she, with only the best intentions, used the spare key to investigate." He stood back, tucking his pen into his pocket and gesturing at the body suspended above us. He looked at me without wording what was on everyone's mind.

"Suicide, then." I muttered.

"At first glance, one would assume so, and yet you can never rule out the possibility of murder." Aberdine had an intelligence which I respected, as he was one of the reliable officers you could expect not to over nor underestimate situations, and so I nodded my acquiescence.

I pulled up a chair from the nearby writing desk and stood upon it to get a better look at the body's face. I pressed my thumb gently to his eyelid and pulled it back, revealing dimmed brown eyes. My gaze swept over his entire face for signs of discoloration or anything out of order, but all I could find upon this quick investigation was a stream of saliva which had oozed from his lips and dried.

"Do you think anything of it, Dr. Watson?"

I stepped down from the chair and pushed it back where it belonged. Crossing my arms I made my way towards the door and answered, "I'll need to retrieve my medical bag before I can properly examine him."

"Alright then," Aberdine said with a sigh. "I'll tell the boys to leave him here till you get back. Been here for two days now, don't know with what rush we've got."

From what little the inspector told me, I already had a gut feeling that this was more than suicide. Upon entering the flat one was at first greeted by a small wire cage, in it contained an ordinary finch. It was aggravated and spastic, and yet by the position it held next to the desk, it was obvious to me that Harton cared very much for this bird. That he had it on hand so that it may sing while he wrote his correspondences, I knew that had he the intentions of killing himself, he'd make the effort to free the poor beast rather then let it starve to its own death. That it was still here, well, I could not fathom anything other than foul play. The only thing I didn't know was where to start. I chastised myself for not insisting that I speak to the woman who discovered Harton, but I supposed it could wait until I got back.

I jumped from my cab, asking the driver to wait for my return, and strode purposefully back to my room. When I entered the sorry flat I instantly drew my eyes to the bedside table where I expected to find my Gladstone. It was not there. Frustrated, my first line of thought was to blame Geraldine for messing with my things and yet I reconsidered that last night I was flustered and tired and that perhaps I had misplaced it myself. I knelt to the floor and checked beneath the bed, swore as I opened my dresser to nothing more than a scant array of clothing, and finally sighed as my bureau proved to be just as disappointingly empty. I sunk upon my bed and laughed, falling into the pillows.

My hair brushed against something hard and immediately I picked up the scent of leather. I nearly laughed again (good humouredly at my own insolence at not noticing the bag on my own bed) when my eyes caught something peculiar. Pinned carefully to the short leather handle was a note. I didn't hesitate as I removed it carefully and unrolled the small piece of blue parchment. I read it quickly, very nearly loosing my breath.

_''Check the back of his neck.'_

My eyes followed the sharp, neat lines as I immediately recognized the hand which wrote it. I looked round the room, my breathing becoming rapid as I eagerly scanned for a second body in my presence. There was no one save myself and the small note I'd held in my hand.

Bursting through the congregating constables, past the distraught witness and into Harton's flat, Aberdine graciously stepped aside as I again pulled the desk's chair and placed it behind the hung body of Percival Harton. I tugged back the noose as best I could and pulled away the upturned collar of the expensive waistcoat. My brows furrowed and my heart began to race.

"Did you have a chance to talk to the lady yet, Aberdine?"

Without looking up from his busy notes, the inspector said that he had.

"Do you know if Harton was married?" I asked.

He looked up then, his eyes sweeping across the room. "These are, without a doubt, the rooms of a bachelor. Why do you ask?"

"Because," said I. "He's been kissed by a woman." And indeed he had as there, barely more than a smudge, was the unmistakable shape of a woman's lips and the pigment of a fine lipstick.

I had the inspector's attention now as he stepped up beside me to get a look.

"By God, you're right. Philips!"

He jumped down and hailed a second man.

"Be a chap and help the doctor and I cut him down. I think we found our link to murder!"

I stood back as the officers examined the body with a new motivation burning their movements. Lestrade rushed in at the excitement and found me standing away from it all.

"What is it? What's happened?"

I shook my head. "This man was murdered, Lestrade, this is no suicide."

His eyes narrowed at me suspiciously. "And it was you who confirmed it?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"The body's right there, my dear fellow, have a look yourself."

It looked like he wanted to say more but I didn't give him the chance. I pushed past, ignoring everybody as they ignored me as I all but flew down the stairs. My heart was beating furiously in my chest, my fingers clenching into fist as I tried to calm my nerves until I could at least secure the privacy of a cab. I shoved aside a man embarking upon a halted carriage without apology and begged the driver to get me to where I needed to go as fast as his horse would carry us. All the time in the world didn't seem quick enough, but I made due.

I don't know how, and I don't know why, but I knew in my gut that he'd be waiting for me at my hotel. My nerves were so heated that by the time I landed I threw what ever money I had in my pockets at the driver and raced up the stairs.

I stormed into the lobby, down the hall and past a flustered Geraldine. The moment my hand was on the knob I threw it opened and there, sitting upon my bed, was Sherlock Holmes.

"Ah, doctor Watson, I knew you'd be back."


	13. Chapter 13

"How did you find me?"

"I never lost you in the first place."

"I know you hired the man at the hotel."

"Oh? And how could you possibly know that?"

"Because all he asked for in payment was your gun_._"

"Funny how that trifling thing keeps coming between us."

"Which is how I knew to leave him immediately."

"And also to refuse the work I offered you, evidently."

"You hired the bartender as well?"

"And the cabbies, and the cooks, even some faces you never noticed. Why, I do believe one _Mr. Carlton _never met his doctor."

I stared at him for a long moment, taking in his figure poised atop my bed, his stare searching mine while his hands lay quietly over his lap. Once I finally accepted that I wasn't seeing things, I stubbornly demanded: "_Why_?"

He rolled his shoulders cooly and looked at me with wicked, gleaming eyes. "The next time you think about escaping, Doctor, think back to this and remember how you merely walked out of my rooms and into my _world_. Essentially, you never left."

"What do you want from me?" I ground out.

"Nothing. In fact, I'm only here because I am inexplicably draw to this murder." He held up the sheet from which his note had been torn. "I'm here to offer my help."

I wanted to laugh and scream at the same moment. "And what makes you think I want your help?"

He chuckled, standing from his position and making his way towards my window. "I find it funny that your reluctance is of _want_ rather than _need_. You see, that is why I think so much of this." He tossed my journal over the bureau between us, watching as it slid to a halt. I looked from it to him, then poured myself a brandy with shaking hands. "These are the exploits," he started in a softer voice. "of our adventures together. Are they not?"

My mind started racing as it was all I could to to compose myself. "Holmes. _ Get out._"

There was a long pause of silence before he looked up and met my eyes. "Everything I've read from that book, despite your physical absence, tells me now that the words you speak are different from the ones you think. Let me help you with this case."

I poured him a glass but left it with the decanter. Shifting my weight to one hip, unable to dispute anything he had said, I consented. "Have you already solved it, then?"

"You're joking, of course."

"No, Holmes, I am not joking..." I searched his face for the telltale sign of humor; a quirked lip, twinkling eyes or even an out right smile. But as I saw him then, his features were cool and yearning. Up until that point I had been regarding him with a lingering sense of apprehension, but now I was struck with idle curiosity. He saw this, and that is where he smiled.

"You mean to tell me that I would have solved the case by now? After so little time?" There was amusement in his voice as his figure relaxed. I could tell by the shift in his demeanor that Holmes had struck upon something he hadn't come to realize.

I nodded coldly, refusing to give into his friendly nature.

He straightened up and removed himself from the window, taking a step towards me. Without realizing what I was doing, I found that I had gone up to meet him. His focus fell upon the decanter behind my back. "You need not worry yourself so much about danger, Doctor. We've passed that point in our friendship."

I scoffed at his use of the word, turning upon my heel and striding towards my night stand. "Holmes, I really see no reason for your being here. If you have advice you'd like me to pass on in order to solve this case, then I'd be much obliged. If not, then I had thought it fairly obvious that you have no obligatory ties to me."

"No ties?" He rounded the bed till we were again face-to-face. "My dear doctor, it would be my pleasure to aid you with this conundrum. But you must know that I... well, admittedly, I am partially here for you as well."

"For me! Holmes I don't want you here, I don't _need_ you here! I have settled myself quite alright without your interference. Unless, of course, you've a hand in controling the Yard as well?"

He ignored my statement. "And how will you go about getting yourself home? Have you been giving it any thought?"

"There are no thoughts to think." I admitted grudgingly. "I have wracked my brain and can think of nothing."

"Did you know," said he in that discerning indifference. "that since your arrival, I have been thinking about myself a lot lately?"

"That's nothing new." I snapped.

"No no, you misunderstand me. I meant to say that I've been thinking about my _other_ self."

I sunk heavily upon my bed and buried my face in the palms of my hands. "Please, Holmes, don't remind me."

"Did you intend to forget?" he asked quietly. I looked up and found him standing next to me as if waiting for an invitation to sit. There was a strange look in his eyes, a haunting shadow as if I had just committed a serious betrayal. When he did not impose his power over me I cursed, offering the space beside me and watched amazedly as he accepted.

We were silent for a long while when I decided that enough was enough. "So what have you found, in regards to this case?"

"I don't think I would want you to forget, Watson. I've been placing myself in an insatiable state of guilt,"

"Holmes, for God's sake, _please_-"

"And I can't help but to consider an ugly alternative."

I laughed humorlessly, losing my patience and giving in. "Alright, Holmes, what alternative? What scheme of mine have you unearthed?"

"That you are lying to me."

I ran a hand down my cheeks, feeling unnaturally tired. But I could do nothing but hold my tongue as I knew Holmes was already prepared to explain. I was shocked yet again to find him watching attentively as I fell back upon the bed. He turned his face away, stood up, and began pacing.

"I've been thinking about everything you've said to me and the larger picture surrounding it. I cannot know if it is true- which seems _impossible_- or if you've just been incepting false trails to lead me astray. If that is the case, then I must say that it was quite ingenious of you. What better way to distract a man then by proposing something so preposterous as the life you claim to hale?"

"_But?_" I asked, as was custom.

"But I don't think that is the case. Not the case at all."

"So you are saying that you truly believe me, then?"

"I'm afraid that is exactly what I am saying."

"You wish to help?"

"As best I can."

"Alright." I rolled myself off the bed, unbuttoning my greatcoat and tossing it aside. "Why don't you start by telling me how you know about this murder?"

His brows furrowed as he watched me dig out a pad of paper and a pencil. He breathed in once, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning against the bedpost.

"What was the first thing you noticed about the victim?" he asked.

"I saw that he had no intentions of dying that night, and so knew it could not be mere suicide."

"Please, Watson, you start off too strong." He was now fully sat on the mattress with his legs crossed and his arms draped over the metal frame. "What did you notice about his rooms? His state of dress, or the glass of whiskey over the mantle?"

"As I've said, a man with no intentions of dying."

He looked hesitant before replying. "Yes... that was fairly self evident, and you are completely right of course. But that's not what you need be right about. Not yet."

I looked down at my empty paper and the pencil hovering over it. "I noticed... the bird?"

"So have I. Pray, continue."

"It had a rouge ribbon tied to the upper ring and a full dish of seed."

"Excellent!" He exclaimed. I could feel my heart beating in my chest as the thrill of the hunt was beginning to pick up momentum. The note was eagerly jotted down and I looked up only to catch a glimpse of my old journal in the mirror. My hand stopped for a brief instant but I recovered before Holmes could take notice. Indeed, he was quite consumed as his fingers were raveled together and his eyes no longer watching mine with apprehension.

"What do you think that entails?" He asked.

"Well I don't know, Holmes, it seems-"

"Unlike something for a man of his age to do, correct? Which suggest to me that... dear me, I apologize. I forgot to mention the lady."

I had to stop at that and stare at him. He was nibbling gently at his knuckle as his eyes quickly scanned from right to left in deep thought. Here I could not hold back my fond remembrance of my friend at Baker Street. To see him before me with imperfect deductive deliverance was a sight I never thought I'd see. I smiled. "We're not too far gone, you may mention her now without damage."

He looked back at me briefly and muttered a few inaudible words. "Right then, from the beginning. I think it safe, in fact I _know_ it safe, to say that I was there as the murderer was taking her leave."

"What were you doing in that part of town?"

"Is that really important?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "My apologies, but it is how my Holmes would have gone about it."

He narrowed his eyes at my statement but waved it off soon after. "Well then I shall state that it was at night, I happened to be taking a stroll, and as consequence, happened to find a woman leaving his rooms unaccompanied. This was suspicious, as the man who hangs victim in this case is not a stranger to me. I happen to know that he's a devoted widower."

"So she was a mistress, then?"

"_That_ is where the suspicion lies. Now I must ask if you or your officers ever considered if this man had a child?"

"No, we had not."

"Hardly anyone does; it complicates matters. One had only to glance at the red ribbon on the cadge to deduce it, however."

I thought about this, but shook my head in disagreement. "It can't be the doings of a child, Holmes. I'm no aficionado of ribbons or silks, but that particular one had a gold strip running down the center. I thought about where I've seen the thing before, and then it struck me. It's very much like the one found at the Mulligan Tailor down on Mount Street."

His lip quirked in a smile and I knew then to prepare myself for disappointment. "There is no such place as Mulligan's on Mount Street." he answered sweetly. "Nor has there ever." I was greatly taken aback as this hadn't occurred to me. I couldn't help but to return his smile when we both realized this.

"I suppose I don't really know London well after all," said I.

"Quite alright, Doctor. But it's good of you to eliminate that obvious possibility as now you are left with really only one alternative. That ribbon was of very find quality, was it not?"

A comfortable air fell upon us as Holmes and I continued to gather what we knew of the case. He would suggest something to me and I would try to figure its place in our running theories. Before I knew it, an hour had passed and I had filled eight pages of leads and surmises. Holmes had remarked how he wasn't sure what was relevant or not and had often asked about how Holmes the detective would have acted. He seemed eager to learn my friend's methods, and so I told him that I honestly didn't know, and how Holmes seemed to catch clues like grains in a sieve. I could tell by the look on his face that this was a new process and, with little time and practice, one he'd have perfected to an art. I myself was getting so caught up in this game that I had completely forgotten about my harbored dislike for the man, finding that we'd fallen quite easily into familiar grounds. It wasn't until I mentioned a faint odor purveying the victim's room that Holmes had suddenly flown his seat.

"Very good, Watson! Very good indeed!" said he, looking at me excitedly.

"What? What is it?"

He waved me off and went to retrieve his hat and coat from the table. "An inkling, Watson, and a festering one at that! You'll have her soon enough."

"Then you know who it is?"

"I've just now considered our murder's identity an undeniable one. I don't know how I can explain it to you, but if I may just step out and see for myself,"

"By all means, Holmes!"

He was standing beneath the door frame now with his head bowed and his fingers drumming silently over his thigh. He appeared to be in deep thought before he looked up and met my eyes. "I confess that I am apprehensive about this... but you will endear me to another conference? So that I may share my findings?"

I nodded my head eagerly and asked if I couldn't join him. He looked hesitant, but beating round the bush was never Holmes' style.

"I'd much prefer you here, or elsewhere, but not with me. The places I must go- and I mean this in the least offensive of ways- would not at all be suited to your ill trained capacities."

"Well, I... of course, Holmes, I wouldn't want to slow you down." I said honestly.

"Right then. Where shall we meet?"

"I suppose..."

"Don't bother, I will find you. I assume, of course, that you'll be returning to the crime scene to offer your assistance?"

"I'll be in the Scotland Yard mortuary, more likely."

Again he nodded and put a hand to the door knob- but stopped. He turned back to me with a look of consequential indecision flashing across his eyes. I stood awkwardly near the window as he noiselessly assessed me. Finally, after some moments, he released the knob and came back into the room.

"I have something for you, Doctor. You may find it most pertinent in the near future." He lifted a finely crafted watch from his waistcoat pocket and brought it before him. It sprung open with a gleam of reflected gold flashing across its surface of meticulous vines and details; Holmes sweeping his thumb over the face and delicately lifting what looked like an ordinary string from the confined space between glass and metal. It swayed gently in the air as he lay it in my hand.

"I want you to take this. Now, whatever happens, whatever you do,_ do not lose this_. You will regret it most heartily if you do."

I stared blankly at the palm of my hand, then stared at Holmes with an equal blankness. "And... what am I to do with this?"

He put a hand to my shoulder and squeezed it affectionately. "It is to be your salvation in this case. There will come a time when nothing else will make sense but the thread you now hold in your hand."

My brow furrowed and I was quite literally speechless. I didn't know if he was mocking me or what of it, but I decided not to question him. I stepped away from his touch, raveling a small coil with the string and placing it in my pocket. I met Holmes' amused expression and nodded my indescribably confused understanding.

He retraced his steps back to my door and began to open it.

"Go out the window, Holmes." said I, stopping him. "My admiring house maid may see you otherwise."

He stepped back and wrapped the expensive chain through his fingers. "If you wake one morning and find that your heart it missing, Doctor, I'd ask the girl about it. You never can trust the fairer sex with such things."

It was ridiculous, but I still turned away smiling. That was exactly the type of thing Sherlock Holmes _would_ advise against.

* * *

**It's been my intention since, like, chapter 7 to do some sketches for you guys, but I keep postponing it. Oh well, it'll happen eventually.**


	14. Chapter 14

The following consultation with Lestrade and Aberdine went much better then I could have anticipated. The little detective had greeted me with a smile which, given his trends as of late, had made me suspicious. And yet, there was no trace of such a thing in his voice as he detailed all the new findings. Apparently there had been about 6 pounds worth of bank notes in his pocket, minute traces of an almondy scent upon his lips and three very small, very sharp cuts on his wrist. Each was of a different length and curved slightly, leaving an angry crescent over the pale skin. Obviously the result of dug nails, the amounting evidence of this being a woman's doing were becoming irrefutable.

But I, of course, had already known that. Holmes had confirmed as much.

Despite that, I did not detail the hour or so which I had been absent. Of course Lestrade questioned me while Aberdine merely nodded, but I was convincing enough when I told them how I had become overwhelmed and needed to retreat to my rooms in order to mull things over. Here is where dear Lestrade put aside his contempt and accepted my alibi without protest.

The Yard doctor had examined the body and concluded that he had indeed been dead for two days and not by means of violence.

"It's never their method," laughed Aberdine at the news, "for women to resort to violence. I've seen my fair share of everything during my career, and though it is possible, the chances of a woman over powering a man are unlikely." As there were no puncture marks, indicating a lack of weapon or physical violence, we had all accepted this readily. Patting the dead man's arms, he said, "They've the advantage of us, though. Perhaps we are fools for underestimating a woman's desire for revenge, action, what have you. I will swear upon my life that a vengeful girl may outwit even the cleverest and most suspicious of men."

"It is not difficult to accept that as truth here, then." said I.

Lestrade leaned against the table nearest us and flicked idly at his notebook. "But how do we explain the hanging? Unless there was an accomplice, there's no way she'd be able to get him there herself."

"Well now, it's not impossible Lestrade." Aberdine argued. "She could have slipped on the noose and hoisted him up. We're dealing with an resourceful criminal here, after all."

"Though this is by all means a far stretch, I wonder if that's not _below_ her satisfaction?" I asked. They both regarded me with contemplative expressions and shrugged at the possibility.

"We need a more thorough explanation, Dr. Watson, before we can run with the idea."

I didn't quite know how to explain myself but gave it my best. "It seemed obvious to me that we are dealing with an intelligent woman with deliberate intentions. That there was a kiss on the back of Harkins' neck rather than on his face, I'm lead to believe, I admit vaguely, that it'd be difficult pegging this as a result of love gone awry. Something else, then, not to do with money nor the likes."

"But at the hand of an aristocrat? Someone with pride?"

"And elegance, clearly. She may look upon the idea of manually hauling the dead or drugged body as something too substandard to consider. Could you imagine it? I find that we are at least dealing with an experienced theatric."

Another doctor stepped in the room, followed by an officer I didn't recognize. They both looked at us briefly before turning towards another table set in the corner.

Aberdine pulled out his notebook and scribbled down some words.

"I like that thought, Doctor. Perhaps we can use it to our advantage."

"Have we finished with the flat, then?" asked Lestrade.

"Don't know what else we're expecting to find, honest. We'll get a photographer to photograph the scene, then from there we shall see." The officer fingered the brim of his helmet, giving one last glance at the body before covering it up and departing.

Lestrade had also finished jotting down notes. "You said you wanted to examine the body?" he asked.

"It will help to know firsthand what our murderer has accomplished, medically speaking."

He nodded and turned to leave, but not without having one last say. "Do you know, Dr. Watson, that I've been very suspicious of you since the moment I regained consciousness. I knew then that something was fishy about you and Holmes, and I won't lie when I say that murderous thoughts ran freely through my head for some time. However, it is without hesitancy that I stand here with you now. I believe all good men can change... I'm glad you did." He did not smile but I could sense the honesty with which he spoke. I grinned and relaxed my shoulders, turning to the table.

"Thank you, Lestrade." I said warmly and watched as he, too, glowered with something akin to satisfaction. I knew it was expecting too much to think he'd forgiven me, but I found I was on the right track at last.

I took the opportunity to search for incriminating details once I was alone. I did not know the crime records of this world, and so the possible patterns were yet invisible to me. Still, it would not have mattered much as my search turned up nothing to suggest a joint partnership in this particular case. I really knew not what to do with the body then, as I found no reason to argue with the official report. Not knowing how else to busy myself, I took a glance at the two other men sharing the room and watched as they lifted a stickly arm from a deceased woman. The doctor held it's hand gently within his own as the officer craned his neck to get a good look. I couldn't hear their words, but they appeared to be speculating some detail I could not see from my distance. The doctor noticed my silent inquiry and nodded his head in a friendly manner.

"Found this one in the sewer. She's a real beauty, isn't she?"

The officer laughed and shook his head humorously. I returned their smile and turned back towards my man.

He had been cleaned up and preserved in my absence and now lay loosely covered over the table top. His eyes were closed in an eerie slumber as the dark hair framing his face made a stark contrast to his white skin. It was disheartening to look at, as he was a very handsome man who seemed every bit the gentleman his rooms had suggested. I thought about the bird then, and how it would likely be forgotten now that its master had been stolen away from this world.

Noticing a small cut on his chin, I withdrew my notebook to mark it when I became aware of a presence coming towards me. I looked up to see my fellow doctor with an excited look upon his face and humor twinkling in his eyes.

"Mutually blessed this evening, aren't we? It's not often you receive the pleasure of so close an encounter with a body like this. It's a bit fun, I always thought." He never fully came to where I was positioned next to the table, but he grinned unashamedly at me as he folded his hands behind his back and disappeared through the doors.

I turned round once he was gone and asked: "So have you found anything out?"

The officer in the room removed his cover and ruffled a hand through his hair. Tucking the helmet beneath his arm, Sherlock Holmes casually stepped towards my end of the room and studied the body between us.

"I've failed to figure anything out, though I did undoubtedly confirm everything I had known."

Holmes had relaxed his nervous hands and drew a finger through the dead man's hair. I watched curiously as his thumb gently pressed over the nose before he retracted it and plunged his hand back into his pocket. It was hard not to notice that every point of his officials uniform was perfected down to the very last detail; his boots blackened with wax, the polished 'VR' over the helm which wedged proudly between his arm and his body, down to the regulation cut of his trousers. I wondered, briefly, where he had attained such an immaculate ensemble, though not without feeling a depressing ache in the back of my mind as I knew the answer. "So you really do control the Yard." I said with just a little remorse.

"No, not the whole Yard. Just that gentleman and a few others."

I sniffed distractedly and looked up at Holmes. "You're here now, anyway. What have you?"

"Her name is Claire Upperton and you will find her at this address. Read it, memorize it, burn it."

He handed me a slip of paper which I immediately shoved into my pocket. "And how do I go about getting her? I hardly have enough evidence to really point my accusations at _anyone_ by this point."

"Which is exactly why she's going to confess."

I raised my eyebrow in surprise. "How do you know that? You can't expect me to confront the woman I've never had the chance to meet!"

"I gave you your means, Doctor, all you must is employ them."

"What have you given me other than confusion?"

He smiled, looking down at his shining boots before responding. "You tell me."

Proposed tests from Sherlock Holmes usually instilled a grand sense of endearment to me, but I found that in this instance I was just a little more objective. I figure that at that point, I still hadn't forgiven him.

"If you ever wish to accomplish anything," he said in lieu of my silence, "then you must be able to put your absolute trust in me."

"You can't ask me to do that, Holmes, you know I can't. Is this concept really so hard for you to understand?"

"Your mood swings intrigue me, Doctor." he scoffed offendedly. "One moment you look upon me with such a yearning for understanding, and the next, you have the devil in your eyes and contempt in your heart." He fixed me with a stern gaze then, his eyes hard and his lips firm as he coldly demanded: "Decide which is it and let us move on."

I met his stare but not without mounting apprehension, for his was the face I had been warned of; the face of a masterful criminal who could kill or ruin you if he should so choose, the face of a man I did not know but for those stinted moments which have been so cruelly etched into my mind. It was this initial image of fear which had caused my heart to skip a beat and to reluctantly give in to his perfected means of intimidation.

"I may not trust you," I started, distracting myself with the body once more. "But I trust your word."

"You trust the word of Sherlock Holmes, you do not so readily accept mine. But we shall make due. Now, if you'll please get on with it, your window of opportunity is quietly slipping."

I considered everything we'd said upon the matter, yet could come up with only two things. "You gave me her address, and you gave me an ordinary string. _I suppose I could blackmail her_."

There was a disgusted look upon the criminal's face as I said it. "Blackmail? Would you really stoop so low as to resort to that?"

"No, I was only j-"

"Thought I suppose you would, what with you being dead all this time, you haven't had much time to make dirt for yourself, have you? Not considering the six feet of over your body, that is. Never mind, I see that you are still disturbed. Just know, Dr. Watson, that in your pockets you hold the ruin of a most established woman in addition to enough, shall I say, _encouragement,_ to have her bend to you every will. Whatever you want, she _will_ do it... so long as you find it within yourself to ask."

I vaguely understood his implications, and so acted accordingly with an obvious question. "You will be joining me?" I asked, my determination dripping away with uncertainty.

He was distracted by the front entrance of the room when he answered me. "Absolutely not."

My jaw all but dropped at that. "But... Holmes!"

"We're about to lose our time together, Doctor, for those are the footsteps of someone out of my employ. But no, I will not be accompanying you for matters which I doubt you'll be happy to hear. I have my life to lead, after all. You are not at the center of it."

"I didn't suspect it," I ground out flatly. "But how on earth do you expect this to work? How do I know she won't just turn the tables on me, or... for God's sake, a thousand things could go wrong!"

"Or maybe I'm even setting you up myself. Have you _never_ been without your detective, Watson? Must I hold your hand every step of the way?"

"I wish you would!"

He torn his gaze from the distanced hallway and fixed me with his keen eyes. Something flitted across his features, causing his lassitude to slacken and his face to pale considerably. "Dear me, Watson, you are truly frightened of this?"

I had to pause when I heard that. Perhaps I hadn't realized what emotion I wore on my face, nor with what desperation I spoke as I practically _begged_ him not to leave me alone in this. I turned round and began collecting my bag, throwing my coat over my arm as I suddenly found myself holding back tears. It was most disheartening and completely unpredicted.

"Forgive me," I mumbled. "but my temper has always been a bit sensitive. I will go to her, and I will do whatever I can to win the night."

Holmes grabbed my sleeve as I pushed past, spinning me round till I was facing him in full. He was quiet, his expression unreadable as he studied my face. Finally his grip slackened to a friendly hand which he then used to comfort me. "Do you do this often?"

"No," I said through a thick voice. "No, Holmes, I do not. But if you could understand for just a moment how I feel,"

"Is it the case?"

The case. No, I can't say that it was because of what I was going up against that had caused this sudden bout of emotions, but I think it was, again, because of him. That Sherlock Holmes was no longer whom I've always known him to be, that I was set out to do this completely by myself without the assurance of his company, had left me feeling strangely hollow. I do not wish to tire the reader with my constant remonstrants of contrasting these two men together, but I cannot help it. I was about to charge head-first into a situation I knew nothing about, coming home to an empty hotel if I survived, going back to the Yard for a obligatory fulfillment that meant nothing to me while I was in a constant, and I will freely admit, miserable state of mind mostly due to me missing my friend so much. Knowing that I was to never again find him in the sitting room of Baker Street and all that image implied, had left me in a state shock which had allowed my emotions to build and to overflow with the smallest of triggers. Sure I have lamented and cursed, I had dealt with hopelessness and acceptance, but never before had I allowed all that to spill over. Sherlock Holmes now stood before me as a man with higher concerns, as he always did, but now it was with the air of intimidation and not condolence.

These and other thoughts raced rapidly through my mind as I looked into his grey eyes, it all being realized in full by seeing the fleeting confidence ebbing away in eyes which had, to me, always been as immovable as steel. I looked at my hat which had been set on the small tray beside me.

"I've lost everything." I muttered.

He stared at me for a few moments before nodding chastely, releasing my arm as he repositioned his helmet over his head. All traces of warmth which had momentarily crept into his disposition had immediately given way to the cold reserve I had come to expect. "Ah, well, Doctor, you know that I cannot understand and that there's no reason for me to try. Anyhow, I understand that you may be intimidated going up against a murderer, but have a little faith. I cannot accompany you tonight, nor ever again most likely, but I have given you your answer for this case at least. Use it, because you will not win otherwise." He paused for a moment before tilting his head quizzically at me. "Perhaps you ought to take the opportunities which are bared to you, Watson. You've lived your life as a purveyor of justice, proven your worth and your pride. But you must know that my hand remains held out to you in hopes that you will see the benefits of the new life I offer. Mourn your friend, Doctor, but do not be so afraid to accept this new one."

I had collected my composure enough to fool the passing police officers, but I could not help but to feel a second stab at Holmes' words.

"But how will you know things will work out?" I asked.

"Let us just assume, Dr. Watson, that I have my ways."

I shrugged, taking in a deep breath and walking along side him through the exit.

"I wish you would drop this charade, Holmes." I said as we passed Gregson in his office. "I am not so blinded by my plight that I cannot see through your veil."

"How do you mean?" was the skeptical response.

"I know you can't keep away. You were born for this and you know it."

I left him standing there, in the middle of Scotland Yard, with his eyes wide and his mouth agape. I hailed a cab and told the curious driver that I had a lady to meet.


End file.
